WINGS  OF  DESIRE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

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WINGS  OF  DESIRE 


BY 

M.  P.  WILLCOCKS 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
MCMXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
M.  P.  WILLCOCKS 


THE  VAIL  COMPANY.   COSHOCTON,  OHIO 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    ULYSSES;  IN  THIS  THE  READER  is  INTRODUCED  TO  A 

MAN   WITH   SEA-WEARY   EYES 1 

II    CHRYSOSTOM:    IN  THIS   THE   READER  is   PRESENTED 

WITH   THE  KEY  OP  THE  HOUSE 21 

III  RUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN:   IN  THIS  is  ACCOM- 

PLISHED A  RESURRECTION 39 

IV  AN   ESSAY  IN  HEROICS:    IN  THIS   BILLY  PUTS   ON 

WlNGS  AND  SEVERAL  PEOPLE  EAT  DUCK    .        .        .        .51 

V    A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS:  CONTAINING  THE  LEGEND  OP 

A  TOBY  JAR  AND  A  DIVINING  CRYSTAL  .     ...     70 
VI    SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS:  IN  THIS  A  MAX  off 

BELIAL  COMES  HOME 94 

VII    CAP  AND  BELLS  :  IN  THIS  MOLLY  WOODRUFFE  TANGLES 

A  SKEIN  AND  ANNE  HEREFORD  PLAITS  A  THREAD  .   114 
VIII    THK   WAY   OF   A  MAN   IN   Two   MODES:    IN   THIS 
STEPHEN  ANERLEY  USES  A  CUDGEL  AND  ARCHER 

BELLEW,  A  RAPIER 135 

IX    THE   UNDYING    PAST:    BEING   VARIATIONS   ON    THE 

THEME  OF  MOTHERHOOD 170 

X    THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL:  IN  THIS  CASE  THE  FISHER- 
MAN   SETS   HIS   NET,   AND   MRS.    KNYVETT  PLAYS   A 

GAME  OF  CELESTIAL  PATIENCE 189 

XI    ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE:  IN  THIS  SIMON 
BODINAR  SINGES  HIS  WlNGS  AND  THE  REST  OF  THE 

COMPANY  SUFFER  A  SEA-CHANGE 218 

XII    DUKERIPPEN:    IN   THIS   MRS.   KNYVETT  PLAYS   THE 

SIBYL,  AND  STEPHEN  ANERLEY  THE  MAN     .     .     .  254 

XIII  THE  SLEEPING  LADY:  IN  THIS  BELLEW  SENDS  ROUND 
THE  FIERY  CROSS  AND  THE  READER  MAKES  THE 
ACQUAINTANCE  OP  A  SELECT  COMPANY  OF  ELE- 

MENTALS .       .        .       .    279 


2138963 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIV    THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY:   IN  THIS  BILLY  PIPES  AND 

SABA  DANCES 300 

XV  PACTOLUS:  "WHOSE  FOAM  is  AMBEB  AND  WHOSE 
GEAVEL,  GOLD":  IN  THIS  is  SOLVED  THE  MYSTERY  OF 
SIMON  BODINAB'S  ENCHANTED  CIGARETTES  .  .  .  321 

XVI  MfiTiEB  DE  FEMME,  THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW:  IN  THIS 
VIN  HEREFORD  SHUFFLES  OFF  THE  DOMESTIC  COIL, 
MRS.  KNYVETT  RETRIEVES  A  SITUATION,  AND  SIGNOR 

GUARINI  DOES   A  LITTLE  DIGGING 334 

XVII    LA  SALLE  DBS  PAS  PERDUS:  IN  THIS  ANNE  SEES  A 
VISION,  GUARINI  PAYS  A  DEBT,  AND  BELLEW  VIEWS 

A  LOST  LAND 352 

XVIII    EPITHALAMIUM  :     IN    THIS    HEAVEN    LIGHTS    THE 

TORCHES  OF  THE  SKY  .  360 


WINGS  OF  DESIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

ULYSSES:   IN   THIS   THE   READER   IS   INTRODUCED   TO   A  MAN 
WITH   SEA- WEARY   EYES 

TTE  opened  the  door  with  a  crash,  lurched  about  on 
-*•-*-  the  broken  brick  flooring  of  the  place  and  finally 
came  to  anchor  on  a  cane-bottom  chair.  A  monstrous 
hairy  man  was  he,  to  judge  by  his  tattooed  wrist  and 
the  wiry  fingers  he  bent  round  the  bowl  of  his  pipe; 
short  and  squat,  in  the  land-going  togs  of  the  sailor- 
man,  with  deep-set  eyes  and  pinched  cheeks  covered 
with  reddish  stubble. 

"Mission  Hall!"  growled  he  in  an  undertone,  "more 
like  a  wagon  load  of  monkeys." 

The  room  was  long  and  narrow,  with  walls  of  spotty 
stucco,  its  side  lamps  protected  by  wire  casings  and  its 
lanceolate  windows  blurred  with  the  muddy  deposit  of 
rain-drops.  Over  their  dull  surfaces  trickled  misty 
tears,  born  of  human  breath.  The  green  baize  that  cov- 
ered the  platform  had  been  kicked  aside  to  make  room 
for  the  performers  and  the  canvas  back  of  the  piano 
sagged  like  a  bellying  sail.  Tobacco  smoke  rose  in  all 
directions  in  curling  spirals  that  merged  in  haze  over- 
head. At  the  piano  sat  Peter  Westlake  vamping  out 
a  tune  that  set  the  heads  of  the  longshoremen  swaying 
to  and  fro  like  snakes  in  sunlight. 

And  to  judge  by  his  own  feelings  Peter  had  been 
strumming  that  tune  ever  since  the  Ancient  of  Days 
first  made  man:  for  him  the  firmament  had  been  re- 

1 


2  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

duced  to  a  yellow  fog  out  of  which  emerged  the  refrain 
of  "Willie,  waltz  me  round  again;  waltz  me  round  again, 
Willie."  With  one  eye  pecked  on  the  dull-faced  clock 
at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  wTith  the  cushiony  end  of  his 
long  chin  a-waggle  and  his  little  finger  curling  like  a 
lambkin's  tail,  he  was  holding  the  fort  against  the 
forces  of  the  "Valiant  Sailor,"  licensed  to  sell  wine, 
spirits  and  beer  to  be  drunk  on  the  premises.  And 
since  the  armies  of  that  hostelry  were  withdrawn  at  ten 
o'clock,  at  ten-five  every  night  he  thankfully  struck  his 
last  chord  and  banged  down  the  cover  of  the  piano :  one 
more  evening  to  the  good  on  this  side  of  Eternity. 

So  he  usually  thought.  Yet  to-night  he  had  his 
doubts,  for  secretly,  while  Willie  waltzed,  Peter  was 
wrestling  with  the  great  problem  of  whether  it  is  wise 
to  cry  peace  where  there  is  no  peace;  whether  to  hide, 
to  cover  up  evil,  leads  a  man  any  way  on  the  road  to 
cure ;  whether,  in  fact,  it  isn  't  better  to  drag  things  out 
of  their  hiding-places — and  look  at  'em. 

Thus  Peter  Westlake  had  ceased  for  a  time  to  be  an 
Englishman,  while  his  round  pink  cheeks  grew  redder 
and  the  one  front  lock  which  had  escaped  the  brilliantine 
waved  over  his  forehead  like  a  pennon.  He  was  a 
cherub  with  a  brow  and  the  grey  on  his  temples  was 
spreading,  but  all  the  time  he  was  longing  to  testify 
to  the  folly  of  a  lawyer's  clerk  who  had  tried  to  "do 
good."  He  recognised  to-night  that  all  he  had  ever 
done  was  to  cheat  the  clock  a  bit,  by  keeping  these 
fellows  sober  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  not  knowing  that 
whatever  you've  got  a  thirst  for  you  had  better  go 
drink,  so  as  to  learn  the  taste  of  the  cup. 

"They're  men.  I'm  not,"  said  Peter  to  himself,  as 
he  watched  the  longshoremen.  "Go  jim-bang  through 
with  it.  That's  what  you've  got  to  do  if  you're  ever 
to  be  a  man.  I've  been  like  a  good  child  in  a  sweet 
shop,  laying  a  finger  here  and  there  on  a  lollipop,  but 
never  swallowing  it  down. ' ' 


ULYSSES  3 

But  still  Willie  waltzed  on  to  the  fat  little  squab, 
George  Lavers,  with  his  merry  blue  eyes  and  ten  chil- 
dren, to  big  Will  Bowden,  old  Strong-i-th'arm,  to  John 
Holman,  brave  heart  of  seventy-one  with  the  undimmed 
eye  of  a  boy. 

"Men  all,  my  lords,"  said  Peter,  ''and  I  but  a  tub- 
thumping  jackass  whose  piety  is  nothing  but  an  asset 
to  the  smug  propriety  of  the  firm  that  employs  me. ' ' 

That  was  the  worst  part  of  the  coil;  the  whole  thing 
made  him  so  sick  that  he  felt  like  a  whiting  in  a  trammel 
net  with  the  crabs  feeding  on  him. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  hairy  seaman,  after  a  pre- 
liminary shifting  on  his  beam-ends  and  a  furtive  spit- 
ting on  his  palm,  began  to  roll  up  the  aisle  between  the 
rows  of  lounging  men.  In  a  flash  of  half-effective 
memory  Peter  recalled  the  man's  face;  a  Bodinar,  of 
Brixham,  with  a  dim  background  of  brain  and  daring 
to  his  family  name.  Then  the  piano  player  bobbed  his 
head,  nodded  emphatically  three  times,  flashed  his  eyes 
cunningly  and  announced  an  extra : 

"Mr.  Simon  Bodinar  in  the  favourite  Devonshire 
song  'Billy  boy,  Billy.'  " 

Swinging  his  body  as  though  he  were  heaving  at  the 
windlass,  the  singer  began  to  roar  in  a  hoarse  voice  that 
suggested  some  hawser  grown  weed-hung  and  barnacle- 
coated  in  deep-sea  waters  that  only  the  lead-line  knows. 
The  chorus  "Billy,  beuoy,  Billy,"  was  bellowed  by  the 
audience  with  the  rolling  undertone  of  a  ground-swell 
on  a  pebble-ridge. 

"WhurVee  bin  to  all  the  day,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
Whur'v'ee  bin  to  all  the  day,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
I've  bin  yur,  I've  bin  thur,  I've  bin  ivery  other  whur, 
A-luking  for  a  young  thing  to  taake  'er  from  'er  Mam-my. 

"Can  'er  baake  and  can  'er  brew,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
Can  'er  maake  a  Hirish  stew,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
'Er  can  baake,  'er  can  brew,  'er  can  maake  a  Hirish  stew, 
But  'er  be  a  young  thing  to  taake  'er  from  'er  Mam-my. 


4  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"How  awld  be  'er  then,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
How  awld  be  'er  then,  Billy,  beuoy,  Billy? 
Twaice  six,  twaice  zebben,  twaice  twenty  and  eleben, 
Yet  'er  be  a  young  thing  to  taake  'er  from  'er  Mam-my." 

Mr.  Bodinar  snuffed  up  the  incense  of  admiration  at 
the  close  of  the  song  with  his  sensitive,  pock-marked  nose, 
like  any  wide-nostrilled  Chinese  idol.  Then  there  came 
a  sailors'  hornpipe,  danced  solemnly,  deftly,  pat  to  the 
echo  of  its  rub-a-dub-dub,  with  an  upper  body  stiff 
like  a  mainmast  and  lower  limbs  that  seemed  but  mere 
ligaments.  It  was  a  picture  in  dumb  show  of  the  zest 
of  the  sailor's  craft,  a  picture  dating  from  the  time 
when  seamanship  meant  waiting  on  the  pleasure  of  wind 
and  tide,  dancing  to  the  tune  they  played,  not,  as  to-day, 
forging  ahead  in  the  teeth  of  their  defiance. 

When  at  ten  o'clock,  the  company  stampeded  out  of 
the  door  like  a  herd  of  steers,  Peter  made  a  sign  to  the 
man  to  stay  behind.  Yet,  as  they  stood  watching  the 
attendant  extinguish  the  lights  in  the  cavernous  place, 
he  seemed  to  find  a  difficulty  in  opening  the  conversa- 
tion, till  Bodinar  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  so  sug- 
gestively over  his  mouth  that  it  almost  seemed  to  hide 
a  smile.  And  this  smile  was  something  quite  different 
from  the  grin  with  which  he  had  hailed  the  roars  of 
applause.  At  sight  of  it  Peter  Westlake  remembered 
another  fact  about  the  Bodinars;  a  singular  bit  of  sea- 
daring  by  which  one  of  the  brothers  had  saved  a  vessel 
by  opening  casks  of  oil  round  a  foundering  craft.  In 
short,  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  brain  about  the  chap 
that  made  even  his  silence  impressive.  The  sensation 
emboldened  the  little  man  and  he  plunged : 

"That  was  a  queer  yarn  you  were  spinning  on  the 
quay  this  afternoon,"  he  began.  "I  suppose  you  don't 
mind  telling  it  over  again?  I've  got  a  friend  upstairs 
I  should  like  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  And  I 
rather  fancy  you've  stuck  pretty  close  to  me  the  whole 
day." 


''Closer  than  a  barnacle,  when  there's  aught  to  gain," 
said  the  seaman  in  a  voice  that  seemed  rusty  from  dis- 
use. 

"Come  upstairs,"  said  Peter,  briskly  leading  the  way 
down  the  passage  to  his  private  rooms  which  adjoined 
the  mission  hall.  As  he  opened  the  door  of  his  study 
another  recollection  of  the  Bodinars  came  to  him;  one 
not  so  savoury,  but  more  mysterious.  For  there  are 
queer  customs,  dating  back  many  centuries  in  all  old 
fishing  centres.  Yet,  after  all,  this  Bodinar  might  have 
no  connection  with  this  particular  superstition. 

The  room  they  entered  looked  out  on  the  river,  with 
windows  that  faced  seawards  down  the  Narrows  of  the 
Dart.  The  lights  in  the  houses  across  the  river  joined 
the  twinkling  stars  in  one  unbroken  wall  of  bright 
points.  Through  the  room  the  lapping  of  the  tide  in 
the  reaches  of  the  estuary  sounded  like  a  confidential 
voice. 

Bodinar  sleeked  his  hair  down  with  both  hands  in 
deference  to  the  tall  man  who  leant  against  the  mantel- 
piece watching  Westlake  and  his  prize  with  a  quizzical 
smile.  Then  the  seaman  sat  down  at  the  green-covered 
table  with  his  peaked  cap  carefully  stowed  beneath  him. 
There  was  a  strange  quality  in  his  eyes,  for  whole  vistas 
opened  downwards  into  them,  as  though  one  were  peer- 
ing into  the  jade  depths  of  some  ocean  world. 

It  was  almost  a  relief  when  he  glanced  down  and  drew 
a  dirty  chamois  bag  from  his  trouser  pocket. 

"Anybody  outside?"  asked  he,  listening  with  his  head 
on  one  side. 

Getting  up,  he  opened  the  door  and  walked  down  the 
passage  and  back,  as  though  to  reconnoitre.  He  had  a 
footstep  that  one  couldn't  forget,  for  one  foot,  appar- 
ently the  left,  halted  and  dragged  with  the  sucking  un- 
dertone of  a  wave  receding  on  pebbles,  while  the  other 
swung  clear  to  a  steady  purpose:  slow  sheep  and  swift 
panther  yoked  in  unequal  fellowship. 


6  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Rum  thing?"  asked  Peter,  raising  his  eyebrows  at 
the  tall  man  who  stood,  match  in  hand,  in  act  to  light 
his  pipe.  The  latter  had  the  knowing  air  of  a  man  who 
can  read  a  woman  or  a  horse  thief. 

Down  the  passage  on  the  return  journey  came  the 
queer  footstep;  dot,  drawl;  dot,  drawl;  and  then  two 
lines  of  a  doggerel  catch : 

"OS  Diego  Ramirez,  where  the  Ildefonsos  roar,  "' 

There's  gold,  there's  gold,  there's  gold  galore." 

His  voice  had  a  break  in  it,  being  guttural  in  the 
lower  notes,  and  squawking,  parrot-like,  in  the  upper, 
with  nothing  to  link  the  two. 

"Sang  it  all  the  afternoon  at  intervals,"  said  Peter 
Westlake.  "Come  over,  I  should  say,  on  the  look-out 
for  a  wealthy  yacht  owner.  Cunning  devils,  all  the 
Bodinars. ' ' 

He  was  about  to  finish  the  sentence  with  more  precise 
information,  but  desisted.  For  somehow  he  wanted  to 
let  the  fellow  make  a  good  impression  on  Captain 
Knyvett.  He  wouldn't  spoil  his  market  by  mentioning 
the  shady  side  of  the  Bodinar  talents.  Meanwhile 
Knyvett  pulled  at  his  pipe  till  the  light  burnt  fire  red 
at  the  breath  from  his  leathery  lips. 

"You  know,  sir,"  said  the  seaman  to  Peter,  "what 
I  told  you  about  this  morning.  Well,  there  'tis. ' ' 

Between  his  fingers,  hairy  like  a  spider's  legs,  some- 
thing glinted.  No  glow  of  sovereign  or  doubloon  had  it, 
only  a  glittering  point  here  and  there  that  caught  the 
light  from  the  hanging  lamp.  Over  and  over  again  he 
rolled  the  pieces,  like  a  man  trying  to  wipe  up  a  stain, 
while  the  other  two  watched  him,  eyes  a-gog.  For  it 
was  gold  dust  that  Bodinar  handled  thus  amorously. 

"There's  tanks  of  it,  where  that  come  from,  gents," 
said  he.  "I'm  the  only  man  that  knows  of  it,  but  I 
can  put  my  finger  on  it  like  that." 


ULYSSES  7 

He  dashed  a  spatulate  black-rimmed  thumb  on  the 
table  and  puffed  noisily  at  his  pipe. 

"  It 's  a  dead  cert,  gents,  a  dead  cert. ' ' 

He  leant  back  in  his  chair  with  the  wearied  air  of  a 
man  who  is  labouring  an  obvious  point.  Then  he  lifted 
up  his  head  like  a  dog  that  howls  and  began : 

"Off  Diego  Ramirez,  where  the  Ildefonsos  roar, 
There's  gold,  there's  gold,  there's  gold  galore. 

That's  it,  gents.  And  it's  poetry,  too.  Made  it  my- 
self. Runs  in  a  family  like  warts,  poetry  does.  For 
my  father  was  the  same  before  me  and  made  rhymes  as 
clear  as  a  bell." 

He  had  drunk  just  enough  to  turn  the  footlights  on, 
so  to  speak.  Nor  was  Simon  Bodinar  cut  off  from  one 
of  the  most  abiding  sources  of  joy,  a  sense  of  the  great- 
ness of  his  own  powers. 

Then,  inspiration  welling  within,  he  tried  a  new  tune : 

"Down,  down,  down,  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  dead  men  crawl  upon  hand  and  knee." 

Across  the  heaving  surface  of  the  river  outside  lay  a 
streak  of  light  that  showed  the  rise  and  fall  of  its  un- 
quiet breast.  Beyond  the  light  could  be  distinguished 
the  blackness  of  hills  girdling  the  Basin  where  the  riding 
lights  of  the  anchored  vessels  hung  like  fireflies  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  an  unseen  net. 

Suddenly  the  steam-ferry  bustled  across  the  tideway 
with  the  hiss  of  a  saw  and  the  men  roused  themselves 
from  the  half -dream  into  which  they  had  fallen. 

"Diego  Ramirez,"  said  Captain  Knyvett;  "that's  the 
Horn  district. ' ' 

"Aye,  it's  the  Horn,  the—" 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Knyvett,  twinkling,  "the  English 
language  does  stand  in  need  of  trochees.  But,"  he 
added,  changing  his  tone,  "you'll  have  to  prove  your 


8  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

credentials,  Bodinar,  up  to  the  hilt,  if  you  expect  us  to 
act  on  what  you  're  telling  us. ' ' 

' '  Sir,  I  ask  for  nothing  better.  And  as  for  going  out 
to  look  for  the  place  where  this  come  from,  that's  your 
own  look-out.  Only,  if  you  don't,  you'll  be  making  a 
big  mistake,  the  biggest  of  your  lives. ' ' 

"If  there's  going  to  be  any  going  after  gold,"  said 
Peter,  rising  and  going  to  the  window,  ''I'm  out  of  it. 
It 's  not  my  affair. ' ' 

"You're  not  in  with  this  at  all,  then,  Peter?"  asked 
Captain  Knyvett,  raising  his  eyebrows  banteringly.  He 
had  noticed  that  the  hand  which  the  small  man  lifted  to 
his  pipe  was  shaking  and  knew  that  one  of  the  strongest 
forces  in  the  world  was  working  in  the  room  that  night. 
' '  Yet  'twas  you  who  first  cottoned  to  the  yarn. ' ' 

"I  can't  be  in  with  it,"  said  Mr.  Westlake  curtly. 
"I'm  a  poor  man.  You'll  want  money  for  a  mad-cap 
scheme  like  that." 

He  lost  himself  in  long,  long  dreams  as  he  fixed  his 
gaze  firmly  on  an  anchor  ring  clamped  to  the  paving 
of  the  quay  outside.  The  voices  in  the  room  seemed  to 
come  to  him  from  a  far  distance,  but  insistently. 

"Let's  get  it  all  plain  and  square,"  said  Captain 
Knyvett,  getting  up  and  taking  down  one  of  the  many 
blue  back  charts  that  hung  on  the  wall.  It  was  a  chart 
of  the  Cape  Horn  district  that  he  flung  on  the  table. 

Peter  Westlake  drew  nearer,  irresistibly  fascinated, 
while  the  seaman  began  to  hum  once  more : 

"Off  Diego  Ramirez,  where  the  Ildefonsos  roar, 
There's  gold,  there's  gold,  there's  gold  galore. 

"There  she  is,  there  she  is,  the  old  b — ,"  he  shouted, 
running  his  fingers  along  to  the  south  of  that  hell  of 
seamen,  the  terrible  Diego  Ramirez  islands. 

"Do  you  know,  mate,"  said  Peter,  "that  chanty  of 
yours  gets  on  my  nerves  ?  Hang  the  thing !  Jiggety-jig, 
jiggety-jig,  I  shall  have  it  in  my  head  all  night." 


ULYSSES  9 

"Morn  and  night,  pit-mirk  and  bright  noon,"  said 
Bodinar  solemnly.  "It  runs  in  my  head,  too.  For  it's 
true." 

"Sailor's  yarn!" 

"That's  right,  mister.  Sailor's  yarn  it  is.  But 
sometimes  they'm  true.  And  who  are  you,  a  sky-pilot, 
a  devil-dodger,  to  be  a  judge  of  sailors'  yarns?" 

"You  say,"  said  Peter  sharply,  "that  the  Anaconda, 
a  coasting  vessel,  was  built  for  a  firm  of  traders  in 
Coronel  by  Hamblen  Brothers  of  this  town. ' ' 

He  nodded  towards  the  quay. 

"That  you  took  her  out  as  skipper,  to  the  west  coast 
of  South  America  through  the  Magellan  Straits  and  that 
being  driven  by  stress  of  weather  up  Smyth's  Channel, 
you  there  came  across  a  certain  cove  which  you  can  find 
again. ' ' 

"That's  so.  Straight  on  the  knocker,"  said  Bodinar 
cheerfully,  reaching  over  to  the  grate  and  knocking  out 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe  on  the  hob  of  it.  "That's  so. 
See  here,"  he  said,  stretching  out  a  great  hand  towards 
Captain  Knyvett  as  the  latter  rested  his  hands  on  the 
table  watching  both  chart  and  man,  his  bushy  eyebrows 
drawn  close  together  in  cogitation.  "You  think  I'm 
lying.  Well,  if  I  am,  you  can  go  and  find  out.  Hamblen 
Brothers  o '  Dartmouth  have  got  their  ship-building  shop 
about  a  hundred  yards  from  this  very  window.  You 
can  go  and  ask  'em  whether  they  built  the  Anaconda 
and  I  took  her  out  through  the  Straits. ' ' 

"Let's  have  the  full  story,"  said  Mr.  Westlake,  com- 
ing out  of  his  day-dream. 

"Ah,  Peter,  Peter,  you've  singed  your  wings,"  cried 
Captain  Knyvett,  subsiding  into  his  chair  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

' '  Look  ye  here,  gents.  I  took  that  there  cock-boat,  the 
Anaconda,  a  twelve-ton  steamship,  right  out  to  the 
Canaries,  past  the  Line,  down  the  Roaring  Forties,  past 
Cape  Virgin,  up  the  Straits  to  Punta  Arenas.  Now, 


10  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

you're  seaman  enough  to  know  what  that  means.  Talk 
o'  Franky  Drake !  Faugh !  there  wasn't  another  chap  in 
Dartmouth,  no,  nor  yet  in  Devon,  no,  nor  yet  in  England, 
but  me  that  would  have  crossed  the  Pond  in  that  cock- 
boat. 'Twas  taking  a  man's  life  in  his  hands  to  do  it. 
And  Hamblen  Brothers,  what  built  her,  knowed  it. 
Says  they  to  me:  'Bodinar,  there's  not  another  man 
we'd  ask  to  do  it,  but  you.'  Lord,  'twas  the  maddest 
sort  of  a  voyage.  To  cross  the  Pond  in  a  twelve-tonner. 
D  'you  know  how  we  did  it  ? "  he  shouted. 

"She  was  an  accommodation  vessel,  fitted  with  sails 
to  her  and  we  sailed,  thirteen  days,  to  the  Canaries. 
Then  we  caught  up  the  Trades,  sailing,  man,  sailing, 
steamed  the  doldrums  and  right  away  down,  saving  coal 
with  sails  when  the  wind  was  fair.  That  was  seaman- 
ship, that  was,  if  you  like. ' ' 

"It  was,"  said  Captain  Billy. 

"Thank  ye,  mister,"  said  Bodinar,  holding  out  a  paw. 
"Shake." 

"They  may  talk,"  he  went  on,  "o'  Franky  Drake. 
And  he  must  ha'  been  a  seaman,  too,  for  the  man  as 
could — and  they  say  he  did — sail  up  the  Magellan  Straits, 
must  ha'  been  a  great  man.  But  he  didn't  cross  the 
Pond  in  a  twelve-ton  steamer.  No,  nor  he  didn't  use 
sails  on  a  steamboat. ' '  The  ex-skipper  of  the  Anaconda 
loomed,  titanic,  before  their  eyes. 

"And  the  crew!"  he  exclaimed.  "Look  at  the  engi- 
neer. 'Man,'  says  he  to  me,  afore  ever  we  slipped  the 
Narrows  out  there,  'Man,'  says  he  to  me,  'am  I  a  slave 
or  not?'  'No,'  said  I,  'but  you'd  better  go  below  and 
bank  the  fires  all  the  same.'  'Oh,'  says  he,  haughty 
like,  '  as  long  as  you  know  I  'm  not  a  slave ! '  And  goes 
below  with  that.  And  that's  the  sort  o'  seaman  he 
was.  And  the  crew !  Naught  but  Brixham  trawlers  out 
of  work.  Did  they  know  what  they  were  in  for?  No: 
not  one.  What  did  they  know  about  South  America  and 
the  Horn?  Never  heard  of  it,  not  one  of  'em.  Going 


ULYSSES  11 

off  for  a  longish  sort  of  a  voyage,  that's  the  way  o'  it 
to  them.  And  one  shipped  for  cook.  Couldn't  make 
three-decker,  no,  nor  duff.  Hadn't  fried  naught  but 
fish  before.  And  with  that  sort  of  tool,  I  crossed  the 
Atlantic." 

From  the  estuary  outside  had  sailed  Norseman  and 
pirate,  Crusader  and  Elizabethan  sea-dog ;  Drake,  Davis 
and  Gilbert  knew  the  Narrows  well.  Drummed  down  the 
reaches  to  the  noise  of  sackbut  and  psaltery  they  had 
sailed  many  a  time.  Bodinar  had  weighed  anchor  to  the 
noise  of  a  steam-hooter  or  two  and  the  grumbling  of  an 
engineer  half  seas  over,  yet  the  rapture  of  mastery  was 
his.  He  lay  back,  hands  crossed,  and  basked  in  his  own 
sunshine. 

"And  the  gold,  man?"  said  Captain  Billy,  quietly. 
"The  gold?" 

"Ay,  the  gold.  That's  knocking  on  the  knocker,  that 
is.  There  you  go  for  it,  lickety-split.  That's  it, 
lickety-split. ' ' 

He  paused,  tasting  the  syllables  of  his  ridiculous 
rhyme.  Then,  with  an  entire  change  of  front,  turned 
from  truculence  to  solemnity. 

Somehow  or  another  Mr.  Westlake  's  cupboard  had  been 
made  to  yield  spirituous  liquor.  Captain  Knyvett  shoved 
a  glass  of  it  towards  him. 

"Thank  'ee,  mister,  thank  'ee,"  said  Simon,  his  hand 
clasping  the  stem  of  the  rummer.  Then  his  full  lips 
clung  passionately  to  the  brim  of  it  for  a  second. 

"See  us  creeping  along,  creeping  along,  day  after 
day,"  he  continued,  "up  the  narrow  channels  of  a  land- 
locked sea,  cropeying  round  corners,  for  you  couldn't 
tell  where  you'd  fetch  up  upon  t'other  side.  Steep  cliffs 
everywhere,  with  trees  to  the  water's  edge,  evergreen, 
kind  o '  fir  trees,  overhanging  so  you  could  steam  beneath 
the  branches  of  'em.  That's  Smyth's  Channel,  and  up 
above  the  trees,  bare  screes,  and  up  above  that,  snow  in 
the  hollows,  thin  scattered  snow  showing  the  bare  rock 


12  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

between  the  seutter  of  it.  And  a  grey  cloud  that  never 
lifted  overhead  and  the  grey  sea  beneath.  And  rain  and 
hail  and  sleet  and  snow.  Snow  on  the  fir-trees  like  white 
on  an  old  man's  beard." 

He  had  fallen  into  the  voice  of  a  dreamer  fathoms 
deep  in  sleep. 

"And  anchoring  night  by  night,  and  by  day  columns 
of  smoke  in  one  cove  or  t'other.  Long  columns,  like 
hawse  pipes  in  the  air.  Natives '  fires,  the  Alaculof s,  and 
then  the  poles  of  a  wigwam,  maybe.  And  steamer-ducks 
upon  the  water  with  a  noise  of  scores  upon  scores  of 
paddle-wheels  a-going.  To  hit  'em,  you  must  shoot  with 
rifles.  Feathers  so  thick  against  the  cold  that  nothing 
but  rifle  shot  will  bring  'em  down.  Same,  they  tell  me, 
all  along  there,  with  bird  or  beast. ' ' 

He  was  jotting  down  impressions  now,  throwing  them 
out  like  a  man  spitting  out  fragments  of  bone  from  a 
mouth  over-full. 

"And  then —  'Twas  a  dead  dull  hour  with  a  bit  o' 
the  brighter  dulness  that  comes  at  the  close  of  day. 
Like  a  looking-glass  the  sea  and  deep  water  under  the 
very  cliffs.  Lord-a-Lord,  there  must  ha'  been  wild 
doings  there  back  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  years 
agone,  for  the  cliffs  be  mountain  tops  and  the  bottoms 
of  'em  go  down,  down,  fathoms  down.  Sixty  fathoms 
down  is  nothing  thereabouts. 

"And  then —  Tall  cliffs,  black,  up  to  the  snow  line, 
straight  up. ' ' 

He  held  up  his  hands  like  a  Moslem  in  the  pose  of 
prayer. 

' '  A  narrow  neck  it  was  between  'em  and  so  close  across 
that  you  could  have  held  a  pole  across  the  waist  of  the 
ship  and  the  pole  would  ha'  touched  a  rock  on  each  side. 
Pinched  through,  we  did,  though,  a  biscuit 's  throw  from 
they  bare,  black  rocks,  a-seeking  good  anchorage.  Dark 
it  was  there  and  bitter  chill  between  them,  and  beyond 


ULYSSES  13 

a  land-locked  cove.  Smooth,  clear  water,  lead-line  going 
all  the  time.  And  trees,  the  pitch-pine  sort  that  burns 
better  than  bunkers,  to  the  edge  and  through  the  woods 
run  a  stream,  two  hundred  yards  or  so  wide."  He  sat 
resting  arms  on  knees  gazing  into  a  picture. 

"And  half  a  mile  inland  a  waterfall  between  the  trees, 
like  a  white  line,  the  thin  streak  of  it.  And  round  the 
outfall  of  the  river — sand. ' ' 

He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Stepped  into  it  from  the  boat,  foot  going  slush  into 
it.  Low  tide,  sands  all  bare  and  shining.  Up  against 
the  lead  of  the  clouds  and  the  looking-glass  water,  the 
yellow  of  it.  Foot  went  in  deep;  squelch,  I  can  mind 
the  feel  of  it  against  my  sea-boots. 

"  'Hullo,'  says  the  mate.  Great  hulking  chap,  Primi- 
tive Methody  at  that — and  a  teetotaller,  'Hullo,  rum 
stuff!' 

"But  I'd  seen  enough.  He  hadn't  the  brain  to  know. 
7  had.  Up  I  went  under  the  trees  to  the  side ;  foot  sunk 
into  moss  deep  down,  rotten  trees  like  touchwood  and 
pulling  up  the  moss  by  the  roots,  points  of  gold. 

"That's  it — gold.  And  as  the  tide  went  out  the  rocks 
stood  up  out  of  yellow  sands.  And  the  queer  light  over 
it  all.  Then  the  mate,  the  hulking  Methody,  bathes  his 
face  and  neck  in  the  cold  stream.  Face  swelled  up,  so's 
his  own  mother  wouldn't  ha'  knowed  'en.  That's  the 
way  in  those  parts.  The  water  strikes  home  and  to  wash 
all  over  in  the  ice-cold  of  it  would  be  death.  Ice-cold 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  But  that  son  of  a  gun 
was  too  big  a  fool  to  know  it. ' ' 

He  sank  into  quiet  while  Knyvett's  mind  had  gone  in 
quest  of  all  he  could  remember  of  that  strange  land, 
where  man  is  held  up  by  the  forces  of  nature,  a  pigmy 
in  the  hand  of  a  giant.  Spaniard,  Englishman  and 
Dutchman,  sealers  or  prospectors  they  had  sailed  these 
waters  of  the  Horn  century  after  century,  leaving  little 


14  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

trace  save  grazing  sheep  and  a  dying  race  of  natives. 
And  Knyvett  felt  hungry  for  these  virgin  seas,  untama- 
ble by  man. 

The  skipper's  manner  had  changed  again.  He  was 
business-like,  as  brisk  as  a  sharp-faced  landlady  totting 
up  the  items  of  a  bill. 

"Had  a  kerosene  tin  filled  with  the  stuff,"  he  said. 
"Fourteen  pounds  to  a  kerosene  tin.  Kept  it  knocking 
about  on  the  wheelhouse  a  day  or  two,  so's  the  hulking 
fools  I'd  got  aboard  shouldn't  get  wind  of  it.  Then  I 
sneaked  it  down  to  my  cabin.  Kicked  overboard,  thought 
they,  if  they  thought  at  all.  Ah,  yes !  kicked  overboard ! ' ' 

He  grinned,  wriggled  his  legs  ecstatically  and  beat  with 
his  heels  on  the  ground.  Then  he  was  suddenly  quiet 
again. 

"That  tin,  gents,  went  on  to  Coronel,  for  the 
Anaconda  fetched  up  there  at  last.  Then  I  nosed  about 
at  the  ship-chandler's  and  found  they'd  got  a  chemist 
sort  of  a  chap  there.  Pycroft,  by  the  name  of  Reuben, 
he  was — Reuben  Pycroft.  He'd  got  a  mercury  washer 
for  testing  gold.  And  to  him  I  handed  over  that  tin  o' 
sand. ' ' 

"Well?" 

The  listeners  bent  forward. 

"Two  and  a  half  ounces  of  gold  was  what  he  brought 
me,  besides  what  he'd  sneaked.  There's  some  of  it. 
Over  £12  yield.  'Richest  pay-dirt  in  the  world,'  says  he 
to  me." 

Mr.  Bodinar  leant  back,  sighed,  crossed  his  hands  as 
one  who  turns  his  face  to  the  wall,  having  done  with 
earthly  things. 

Then  he  blinked  an  eyelid  lazily  at  the  two  men. 

"And  I,"  continued  he,  "saw  the  very  spot  on  the 
chart  over  there  just  now."  He  nodded  towards  the 
blue  back  on  the  table.  "I've  got  the  latitude  and 
longitude.  'Tisn't  in  the  log,  though.  Not  in  the  log 
of  the  Anaconda." 


ULYSSES  15 

He  hurled  his  sentences  like  an  imp  throwing  stones 
at  a  grazing  sheep. 

' '  And  you  aren  't  going  to  point  it  out  1 ' '  asked  Peter 
Westlake  foolishly. 

"Not  for  Joe!"  said  he  gaily.  "But  set  me  aboard 
a  tug  and  I'll  put  there.  Take  you  to  the  spot. 
And — to  show  there's  no  jiggery-pokery  with  me — 
I'll  plank  down  the  latitude  and  longitude  and  name 
of  inner  and  outer  cove  and  send  'em  in  a  sealed  en- 
velope to  any  bank  you  like  to  name." 

"And  the  profits  for  you?  What  share?"  asked 
Knyvett. 

"One-half  the  net  yield." 

"One-third  to  you,"  said  Knyvett  curtly,  "and 
the  rest  to  the  adventurers  whom  you  guide.  That's 
fair.  We  find  the  capital  for  ship,  wages  and  equip- 
ment. ' ' 

"But—"  began  Mr.  Westlake. 

"All  right,  Peter,"  snapped  Captain  Knyvett. 
"This  is  my  deal." 

"Excuse  me,  gents  both,  it's  mine,"  said  Bodinar. 
"You  can't  move  without  me.  You  might  prospect  in 
that  channel  for  twenty  years  without  me  and  not 
hit  on  that  cove.  I  come  over  here  to-day  and  lights 
upon  you,  Captain  Knyvett,  the  owner  of  the  yacht 
Pendragon,  now  anchored  in  the  Basin  out  yonder. 
That's  what  I  come  for.  Thinks  I,  here's  a  lot  of 
yachtsmen  and  that,  moneyed  gents,  about  the  harbour 
now.  Let's  see  what  they  say  to  this.  And  I  say  one- 
half  to  me  and  my  cousin  Sam  Hicks,  that'll  go  with 
me.  Him  and  me  can  work  together.  I  know  'en 
well." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Knyvett. 

"A  good  steady  chap.  Ship's  carpenter  by  trade 
and  handy.  He'll  come." 

"One-third  to  you  and  Hicks,  if  we  find  he's  suita- 
ble," repeated  Knyvett. 


16  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"So  long,  gents,"  said  Bodinar,  rising.  "This  deal's 
off." 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  brushed  it  elaborately  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  tied  the  neck  of  the  chamois 
leather  bag.  This  he  did  slowly  and  yet  more  slowly, 
tying  a  sailor's  knot,  untying  it  and  then  repeating 
the  operation. 

"I  say,  Billy,"  protested  Peter. 

"Wait  a  bit,  Peter,"  said  the  captain  in  a  low  voice. 

Bodinar  had  already  reached  the  door,  when  he 
paused,  hesitated,  and  came  back.  He  had  concluded 
to  throw  his  cousin  overboard. 

"One-third  to  me,  and  what  share  to  Hicks  that  you 
find  conformable,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Eight,"  said  Knyvett,  "see  you  to-morrow,  skip- 
per." 

The  sea  was  making  now  and  from  where  they  stood 
on  the  steps  of  the  house  they  could  hear  the  soft  hiss 
of  its  on-flow  filling  the  air  as  with  the  rush  of  a 
creature  myriad-winged.  Overhead  a  gibbous  moon, 
swollen  in  the  face  by  reason  of  the  mist  wreaths,  cast 
aureoles  of  burnished  copper  across  the  flocks  of  racing 
clouds.  Along  the  pavement  of  the  quay  sounded 
Bodinar 's  step,  growing  fainter  in  the  distance;  dot, 
crawl;  dot,  crawl.  Then  silence. 

Round  the  corner,  beneath  the  overhanging  houses  of 
the  ancient  Butter-walk,  Bodinar  stopped,  rubbed  the 
back  of  his  head,  pressed  his  hand  over  the  reddish 
stubble  of  his  chin. 

"Ho!"  grunted  he,  "Ho!  Ha!"  Plainly  he  de- 
rived much  satisfaction  from  the  repetition  of  these 
syllables.  "And  now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "for  a  bit 
of  roast  duck  and  a  glass  of  rum  and  water.  Wonder 
if  she's  got  any  cold  potatoes,  for  roast  duck  cries  for 
potatoes  most  so  much  as  it  does  for  onions,  and  eating 
roast  duck  without  onion's  like  kissing  a  man  without 


ULYSSES  17 

a  beard,  as  the  maid  said  when  she  hugged  the  wrong 
chap." 

Before  the  red-curtained  windows  of  the  lodging 
house  he  whistled  shrilly.  There  were  three  steps 
below  the  level  of  the  street  leading  into  the  matted 
passage  of  it  and  a  richly  nutritious  air  ascended  into 
the  street  from  the  adjacent  atmosphere.  Bodinar 
snuffed  zestfully  and  disappeared.  His  footstep  was 
more  peculiar  than  ever  on  a  stairway. 

"What  d'you  make  of  it?"  said  Peter  Westlake  as 
they  returned  to  the  fire. 

"Three  facts  I've  got  out  of  him  unbeknownst  to 
himself,"  said  Captain  Knyvett,  holding  up  one  finger 
after  another.  "Fact  one,  he  sees  visions  and  dreams 
dreams;  an  imaginative  devil.  Fact  two,  he  likes  a 
drop.  Fact  three,  he  caves  in  when  he's  hard  pressed. 
But  all  the  same,  there  may  be  something  in  it.  There 's 
a  thousand  miles  of  gold-bearing  strata  in  the  Horn 
district  and  the  out-crop  is  at  sea  level  in  places,  or 
below  it.  That's  why  I  first  listened  to  the  man.  But 
they  haven't  washed  for  it  in  the  "West  and  especially 
in  the  Northwest.  Know  anything  about  this  Bodinar 
chap?" 

"Well,  yes.     Or  rather  about  the  Bodinars." 

"What  then?     Out  with  it,  man." 

"They're  West  Cornish,  I  believe.  At  least  the  name 
is.  And  there  was  a  Bodinar  that  married  a  Crowte. 
And  the  Crowtes  go  back  three  or  four  generations  as 
— don't  laugh,  Knyvett — witches,  fortune-tellers,  what 
you  will.  One  of  these  women  was  the  seventh  daughter 
of  a  seventh  daughter  and  able  to  overlook — or  cure  over- 
looking, I  don't  know  which." 

"An  atmosphere  of  trickery  and  deceit,  anyway," 
said  Captain  Knyvett,  knitting  his  brow.  "Who  goes 
to  'em?" 

"Everybody    on    the    sly.    Women,    ship    captains, 


18  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

smack  owners.  Anyone  with  a  bigger  venture  on  hand 
than  ordinary.  And  only  a  few  generations,  remem- 
ber, would  take  you  back  to  the  witches  who  sold  a  wind. ' ' 

"So  that's  Bodinar's  source." 

"May  not  be.  For  there  are  several  brothers.  But 
one  married  a  Crowte." 

"Who  has  a  devil  or  a  familiar,"  said  Knyvett, 
laughing.  ".Well,  courage,  mon  ami,  le  diable  est  mort. 
But  what's  the  matter  with  you?  For  something's  up, 
or  I'm  a  Dutchman." 

Peter  Westlake  answered  by  another  question. 

"Knyvett,"  said  he,  "you  must  once  or  twice  have 
come  down  to  the  bed-rock  of  things  ? ' ' 

"Once  or  twice,"  answered  Knyvett  quietly.  "And 
so  that's  happened  to  you,  has  it?  Well,  I'm  glad  of 
it.  But,  how  does  it  take  you?" 

"I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this  poll-parroting  about, 
painting  mere  manners  on  real  flesh  and  blood.  What's 
the  odds  of  a  cuss-word  or  two,  or  a  drinking  bout  now 
and  again,  if  the  root  of  the  matter's  in  you?" 

"I  wondered  how  long  you'd  stick  it,"  said  Knyvett. 
"For  after  all,  it's  cheek,  doing  what  you've  been 
doing. ' ' 

"So  it  is,  Knyvett,  so  it  is.  Dead  sick  of  it  I  am. 
I  must  let  out — or  bust,  I  tell  you.  Faith,  I've  got  a 
regular  hunger  upon  me,  I  have.  Red  meat's  what 
I  must  have.  All  my  days  I  've  fed  upon  mush. ' ' 

' '  What,  Peter,  you  ?     Old  '  Hold  the  Fort '  ? " 

"Don't  chaff,  Billy.  I  can't  stand  it.  Good  Lord, 
you  ought  to  understand.  You  cut  everything  not  so 
long  ago  and  became  a  wandering  Jew.  Why  shouldn't 
I?  Tell  me  that,  Billy?" 

"And  yet  you're  getting  up  in  the  firm.  You're 
through  your  articles  and  on  your  way  to  a  double- 
belled  front  door.  And  this  place,  this  mission  hall, 
is  always  packed." 


ULYSSES  19 

"Do  you  think  I'd  have  stayed  so  long  if  it  wasn't? 
But  I  don't  believe  in  any  of  it.  That's  a  fact.  I've 
got  to  quit.  I  tell  you  I'm  like  a  man  that's  sat  by 
a  beastly  gas-fire  all  his  life.  I  want  to  go  away  and 
light  up  a  big  bonfire;  to  smell  the  blessed  smoke  of 
it.  Lord,  I  can't  explain — " 

"You  needn't,"  said  Captain  Knyvett  quietly.  "It's 
just  growing  pains,  Peter." 

"All  right.  I've  got  to  grow  then,"  puffed  Peter 
angrily.  "And  I've  sent  in  my  checks  anyway.  I've 
only  three  more  weeks  of  bondage  to  folios.  But  there 's 
another  reason  why  I  must  go. ' ' 

"Ah!" 

"Anne  Hereford's  coming  back  to  stay  with  her 
sister. ' ' 

The  little  man  was  pacing  up  and  down;  he  had 
gone  to  pieces  everywhere,  as  Knyvett  observed,  for 
even  the  heels  of  his  shoes  were  trodden  down.  Heart 
gone,  pluck  gone;  that  was  Knyvett 's  verdict.  The  lat- 
ter began  to  feel  that  if  Bodinar's  gold  was  but  the 
glitter  of  a  phantom  Pactolus,  it  had  come  in  the  nick 
of  time. 

"But,"  said  he  quietly,  "if  Anne  Hereford's  com- 
ing, that  appears  all  the  more  reason  why  you  should 
stay." 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know,"  said  Peter  testily. 
He  was  an  unimportant  cog  in  the  legal  machinery  of 
Dartmouth,  and  Knyvett  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  posi- 
tion, but  Peter  Westlake  simply  lacked  "the  social 
sense."  It  was  one  of  his  greatest  charms. 

"Very  likely,"  acquiesced  Captain  Knyvett.  "But 
how  are  the  Herefords?  It  was  to  see  them  that  I  put 
in  to-day." 

"Sara,"  said  Peter,  "is  quieter  than  ever.  Her 
husband's  new  book  is  out  and  nobody  wants  to  men- 
tion it  to  her.  And  her  father  looks — well-fed." 


20  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"The  old  situation  then,"  said  Captain  Knyvett. 

"And  did  you  expect  a  new  one,  then?"  snarled 
Peter. 

"When  it  comes  I  want  to  be  ready  for  it,  Peter. 
That's  all,"  said  Knyvett. 

And  being  ready  for  a  new  situation  in  the  Hereford 
family,  was,  for  the  present,  the  epitome  of  Captain 
Billy 's  life.  Being  a  sailorman  he  understood  to  the  full 
the  duty  of  standing-by. 

"Meanwnile,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  say  to  going 
with  Bodinar  and  me  up  Smyth's  Channel  prospecting 
for  gold?" 


CHAPTER  II 

CHRYSOSTOM:    IN    THIS    THE    READER    IS    PRESENTED    WITH 
THE   KEY   OF   THE   HOUSE 

CAPTAIN  KNYYETT  stood  on  the  terrace  at 
^-^  Craneham,  gazing  into  the  Herefords'  dining- 
room. 

At  this  height  the  sea  sounded  like  the  wind  playing 
through  ruined  walls,  now  thin  and  clear  like  the  hum- 
ming of  an  unseen  harp ;  now  close  and  luring  like 
the  note  of  some  old-world  pavan.  For  the  house  rose 
like  a  white  cliff  out  of  a  belt  of  pines  and  cedars. 
And  beyond  it,  still  higher  up  the  hillside,  wound 
the  white  road,  topped  at  the  summit  by  telegraph 
poles  that  stood  out  against  the  greyness  of  the  heav- 
ing sea.  High  over  the  front  of  the  house,  against 
the  blue-grey  storm  clouds  that  scudded  before  the 
west  wind,  circled  a  solitary  gull,  the  last  rays  of 
daylight  shining  on  its  strong  wings. 

Through  the  long,  green-toned  room  into  which  Cap- 
tain Knyvett  was  staring,  light  poured  from  the  frilled 
edges  of  a  silk-shaded  lamp  in  a  network  of  yellow 
rays;  it  was  a  sort  of  luminous  spider's  web.  In  the 
heart  of  it  sat  an  old  man.  Tall,  wiry,  with  his  skin 
fretted  to  the  worn  beauty  of  an  ancient  ivory,  with 
his  flowing  white  beard  and  silver  mane,  he  only  needed 
a  trident  to  look  like  a  figure  of  Neptune. 

The  open  case  of  antiques  over  which  he  was  bending 
contained  heavy  rings  of  mossy  iron  and  bronze^ 
mediasval  charms  against  demons,  lamps  from  Rome, 
scarabs  from  Egypt  and  finally  a  crystal  ball  for  scry- 
ing which  he  held  in  his  hand  for  some  time  in  order 

21 


22  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

to  enjoy  the  sensation  of  cumulative  cold  that  such 
a  globe  can  impart.  He  held  it  now  until  a  distinct 
sensation  of  chill  crept  up  his  two  middle  fingers.  Then 
his  face  expressed  satisfaction,  for  Mr.  Hereford  was 
a  connoisseur  in  sensation.  He  had,  besides,  at  this 
moment  other  sources  of  satisfaction,  for  the  lamp  be- 
neath which  he  sat  was  shaded  to  the  precise  tone  of 
yellow  which  he  held  to  be  the  true  saffron  loved  of 
old  in  Isles  of  Greece.  He  had,  in  fact,  babbled  much 
of  Hymen  to  the  astonished  shop-girl  from  whom  he 
bought  it. 

But,  alas,  in  this  world  no  state  of  satisfaction  is 
abiding;  in  fingering  the  next  treasure  in  the  case  a 
trifling  contretemps  occurred,  as  the  watcher  on  the 
terrace  perceived.  The  ring  the  old  man  was  handling 
slipped  from  his  fingers,  bounded  across  the  carpet 
and  clicked  along  the  polished  edge  of  the  floor.  Then 
followed  a  grovelling  search  for  it  which  entailed 
much  snuffing  up  of  carpet  fluff  and  dust  which  again 
induced  philosophic  musing.  As  thus:  how  much  of 
human  progress  would  be  lost  were  man  but  to  return 
to  his  primitive  method  of  progression,  all-fours. 

Vin  Hereford  rubbed  the  tip  of  his  nose  irritably, 
to  get  rid  of  the  fluff  and  philosophy.  The  conditions 
of  the  house  were  restless  this  afternoon.  Doors  had 
banged,  maids  had  scurried,  worst  of  all,  his  daughter 
Sara,  the  anchor  of  his  peace,  had  been  exhibiting 
signs  of  restlessness.  In  short,  Mr.  Hereford  felt  like 
a  cat  who  smells  valerian;  as  he  himself  would  have 
put  it,  his  vibrations  were  perturbed.  The  whole  of 
Craneham  was  full  of  means  whereby  he  might  vibrate 
aright,  from  the  housemaid  to  the  tint  of  his  bed  cur- 
tains, for  when  his  vibrations  were  wrong,  everyone  had 
what  may  be  plainly  called  and  without  euphemism,  a 
devil  of  a  time. 

He  was  understood  to  be  collecting  materials  for  a 
work  on  Charms  and  Amulets;  in  reality  he  was  just 


CHRYSOSTOM  23 

an  old  child  playing  with  toys.  As  he  had  been  all  his 
life,  from  the  time  that,  a  painter  of  sorts  in  the 
Academic  Delecluze  in  Paris,  he  haunted  the  Quarter 
in  long-haired  garb,  through  the  intermediate  stage 
of  a  lecturer  on  Esthetics  in  England,  up  to  the 
present  competence  whereby  he  enjoyed,  like  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  a  modicum  of  prosperity  without  toiling  or 
spinning. 

This  competence  had  been  gained,  not  by  any  exer- 
tions of  his  own,  for  he  had  never  been  a  good  enough 
workman  to  earn  a  pound  a  week,  but  by  the  human 
accretions  he  had  managed  to  gather  round  him.  For 
his  life  had  been  a  process  of  rolling  and,  contrary  to 
the  proverb,  of  moss  gathering.  Round  him  like  an 
old  tree  he  had  gathered  warm  covering  and  every 
stage  in  his  career  was  marked  by  some  human  being 
drawn  into  his  sphere  for  the  purpose  of  contributing 
to  his  comfort. 

First  came  his  wife.  "Without  her  he  would  have 
starved,  for  she  scribbled  magazine  tales,  patched, 
cooked,  fought  the  duns,  paid  for  the  lodgings,  and 
never  let  him  know  that  she  was  his  first  line  of  de- 
fence against  poverty.  Then  came  his  two  daughters. 
One  of  these,  Sara,  the  elder,  had  proved  a  very  profita- 
ble investment,  for  her  he  had  married  to  Archer  Bel- 
lew,  a  son-in-law  of  his  own  choosing,  and  when  she  be- 
came an  heiress  in  a  small  way  by  inheriting  Craneham 
from  her  mother's  sister,  he  practically  acquired  the 
place,  as  he  had  always  annexed  everything  desirable. 
He  had  even,  as  a  final  corner  stone  to  the  edifice  of 
his  comfort,  abducted  a  cook  from  Paris,  for  Elizabeth, 
busy  at  this  moment  in  the  back  regions  of  Craneham, 
had,  for  the  love  of  little  Madame  Hereford,  followed 
the  family  to  England  from  the  Pension  in  the  Rue  de 
Milan  where  the  Herefords  had  lived  through  their 
worst  times.  A  very  lucky  parasite,  in  fact,  was  old 
Vin  Hereford,  one  whose  human  relationships  had 


24  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

been,  materially  speaking,  his  salvation.  And  about  his 
salvation  in  another  sense,  who  knows? 

Anyway  he  had  one  plea;  that  through  him  many 
human  creatures  had  been  afforded  a  priceless  oppor- 
tunity of  practising  the  virtues,  both  major  and  minor. 

Reflecting  that  he  had  played  the  eavesdropper  long 
enough,  Mr.  Knyvett  crunched  across  the  gravel  and 
up  the  steps.  On  the  square  turn  of  the  oak  stairs 
stood  Sara  Bellew,  prinking  her  face  sideways  at  the 
sound  of  the  visitor's  footsteps.  He  wondered  what  it 
was  in  her  greeting  that  struck  a  sudden  chill  in  him, 
for  it  was  as  full  of  pleasure  as  a  welcome  could  possi- 
bly be. 

"Why,  Billy,  dear  old  Billy-Doux,"  she  cried,  hur- 
rying down  with  both  hands  outstretched,  "is  that  you? 
We  never  knew  that  the  Pendragon  was  in." 

"It  wasn't  till  yesterday,"  he  said. 

Of  Knyvett  people  often  thought,  "What  a  queer- 
looking  chap,"  till  he  spoke — and  then  they  found  that 
he  possessed  a  most  insidious  charm,  a  mellow  voice 
that  was  power  and  tenderness  combined.  His  wide 
forehead  showed  up  the  fluted  appearance  of  the  bony 
structure  of  the  temples  where  the  wrinkles  had 
weathered  into  the  dry  furrows  that  come  from  ex- 
posure to  sea  and  sun.  He  wore  his  beard  goatee,  and 
more  folks  than  one  had  wondered  what  would  happen 
to  Captain  Billy's  notions  if  that  beard  were  to  be 
clipped.  For  when  its  wearer  was  in  a  tight  place 
a  tug  at  it  had  often  brought  a  shower  of  inspiration. 
And  he  had  been  in  so  many  tight  places  that  his 
face  was  like  a  palimpsest  scrawled  over  with  many 
things.  Over  its  hollow-cheeked,  Don  Quixote  lines 
the  sun  had  placed  a  bloom  of  tan;  in  his  muddy  grey 
eyes  the  sea  had  put  just  a  glint  of  blue.  And  that 
gleam  of  blue  had  been  well  earned,  for  he  was  familiar 
with  the  note  made  by  breakers  on  a  cliff,  with  the 
hiss  of  surf  on  a  lee  shore. 


CHRYSOSTOM  25 

Sara  was  a  tall  woman  with  a  square  head  crowned 
by  the  black  parted  hair  above  a  low  broad  forehead 
that  one  sees  more  often  in  Southern  than  in  English 
women.  Her  type  is  found  constantly  in  Provence. 
Dark  eyes,  deep  wells  of  brooding,  were  set  in  a  dusky 
face  that  had  already  something  of  the  mellow  tone  of 
a  sun-baked  wall.  Her  hair,  buoyant  and  crisp,  en- 
circled her  head  with  the  curves  first  caught  by  a 
Roman  chisel.  A  still  woman,  she  moved  gracefully, 
dressed  to-night  in  a  rather  sumptuous  dress  of  old 
gold.  The  material  of  which  it  was  made  seemed 
brocade  in  the  evening  light,  but  its  richness  was,  in 
fact,  merely  due  to  braid.  And  in  any  case,  it  was  at 
least  five  years  old,  which  facts  are  here  writ  parable- 
wise,  for  Sara  Bellew  had  learnt  the  whole  duty  of 
womanhood,  which  is  to  make  the  best  of  things.  And 
since  she  could  not  afford  brocade,  she  took  braid  and 
therewith  tried  to  be  content. 

"Well,  Sara,  how  goes  it?"  he  asked,  eyeing  her  as 
jealously  as  a  man  may  after  a  long  absence. 

"Just  a  little  older,  Billy,"  she  laughed,  nervously 
putting  a  hand  to  her  cheek  under  his  scrutiny. 

"And  just  a  little  dearer,"  he  said.  But  that,  of 
course,  was  to  himself. 

"But  especially  well  to-day,"  she  continued.  "For 
we  are  expecting  Anne  at  any  moment." 

She  walked  out  of  the  front  door,  a  certain  nervous- 
ness still  continuing.  And  at  Craneham  the  house  was 
at  all  times  but  an  annex  to  the  open  air.  Mr.  Knyvett 
followed  her  to  the  garden  seat  that  faced  the  great 
cedars. 

"Anne  coming  back?"  he  said,  "but  surely  she  isn't 
through  with  her  course  yet?" 

Mr.  Hereford's  unmarried  daughter  was  on  the  way 
to  a  doctor's  degree. 

"No,"  hesitated  Sara,  "but  she  had  to  come  back  f.or 
a  time  all  the  same." 


26  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Why?" 

' '  Well,  she  has  to  wait  till  we  can  get  together  enough 
money  for  her  to  go  on.  When  Aunt  Priscilla  died  and 
left  me  Craneham,  we  all  thought  how  rich  we  were, 
but  there  was  very  little  ready  money  and  the  place  is 
expensive  to  keep  up." 

Mr.  Knyvett  nodded.  He  knew  how  to  give  due 
weight  to  Mr.  Hereford's  expensive  mania  for  collect- 
ing antiques.  He  remembered  with  a  grin  how  in  the 
old  days  Anne  used  to  tamper  with  the  mail  by  drop- 
ping catalogues  into  the  waste  paper  basket.  And 
Archer  Bellew,  that  rising  novelist,  might  not  care  to 
spend  on  his  wife's  sister.  But  here  he  caught  himself 
up  short. 

It  was  singular  how  little  Sara's  husband  appeared  to 
count  in  her  life.  He  was  constantly  absent  from  Crane- 
ham,  for  which  there  was  doubtless  excuse  in  the  fact 
that  the  old  Hedonist,  her  father,  chose  what  tune  should 
be  played  there.  He  was  also  apparently  often  absent 
from  his  wife's  mind.  For  which  there  might  also  be 
excuses,  only  Billy  Knyvett  had  no  desire  to  know  them, 
for  there  are  always  some  trains  of  thought  that  one 
shies  at.  Just  now  his  mind  was  beating  up  and  down, 
seeking  a  way  for  itself. 

"Will  you  let  me  help  with  Anne?"  he  said  bluntly. 

"With  Anne?" 

"Let  me  find  the  money.  Wait  a  bit!  It's  a  simple 
enough  matter  really.  I've  got  plenty  to  play  ducks 
and  drakes  with,  if  I  like.  In  fact,  I'm  just  going  to 
chuck  some  away  in  a  gold-prospecting  scheme,  and 
Anne  will  be  a  good  investment." 

"Oh,  Billy,  we  couldn't." 

"Yes,  you  could.  If  she  were  a  young  man  you 
Wouldn't  refuse." 

"But  you  can't  treat  her  as  if  she  were." 

"Why  not?  Look  here,  Sara,  just  listen  to  me.  I 
don't  ask  it  for  Anne's  sake.  I  want  to  do  it  for  my 


CHRYSOSTOM  27 

own.  We've  known  each  other  for  years.  And  I've 
been  able  to  do  nothing  for  you.  I  want  to  put  what 
I  feel  into  action.  I've  stood- by  and — only  felt.  There 
was  nothing  I  could  do  but  feel.  Give  me  my  chance, 
Sara,"  he  pleaded. 

-  He  got  up,  half  choked  by  his  inability  to  catch  the 
gossamer  web  of  his  deepest  emotions. 

But  Sara  understood.  She  was — and  to  it  she  owed 
half  her  charm — one  of  those  people  who  live  vividly  in 
the  world  of  unspoken  things,  of  things  unheard,  but 
yet  audible. 

"I  know,  Billy,  I  know,"  she  cried.  "But  it's  the 
thing  that  one  only  feels,  that  never  finds  expression, 
that  is  dearest.  Do  you  know  that  often  when  I  sit 
over  the  piano,  I  hear  a  sort  of  dream-music,  a  song 
I  shall  never  play  in  actual  notes?  I  don't  think  I 
would  if  I  could.  I  want  to  keep  my  dream-song  un- 
spoilt. Once  brought  down  to  earth  and  played,  it  would 
never  be  so  beautiful  again.  And  I  feel  like  that  to- 
wards you." 

"I'm  only  a  man,"  he  said  humbly. 

But  his  thought  followed  hers,  quick- winged ;  how 
wonderful  love  might  be  to  many  had  they  never  gone 
through  the  process  of  love-making  and  marriage.  That 
explained  a  good  deal  of  Sara's  married  life.  Then 
he  returned  to  his  point — with  a  bludgeon. 

"Let  Anne  judge  for  herself  about  this,"  he  said. 
"That's  only  fair." 

* '  She  would  feel  just  as  I  do  about  it. ' ' 

"Then  let  her  say  so.  If  you  are  sure  about  that  you 
needn't  hesitate." 

"You  don't  think  she  would  agree  with  me?" 

"No.     She  has  too  much  sense." 

"Billy,  how  rude  you  are,"  she  laughed. 

Just  then  from  the  lane  below  the  house  came  a  shrill 
cry  of  "Coo-ee"  three  times  repeated  and  followed  by 
the  gamin  whistle  that  is  made  by  three  fingers  placed 


28  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

between  the  teeth,  a  whistle  regardless  of  Mr.  Here- 
ford's nerves. 

"That  must  be  Anne,"  exclaimed  Sara  and  promptly 
vanished  down  the  green  tunnel  through  the  pines,  while 
Mr.  Knyvett  hurried  into  the  house  to  soothe  the  father 
of  the  family. 

Mr.  Hereford's  idea  of  the  perfect  friend  was  one 
who  would  make  himself  a  mere  receptacle  for  ideas. 
He  therefore  received  his  visitor  with  affability,  for 
Billy  Knyvett  perfectly  understood  that  his  function 
was  to  be  a  conduit  pipe. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  the  old  man  joyously,  "that's  the 
way  to  do  it.  To  come  in  upon  one  without  fuss.  "We 
never  knew  you  were  near  the  place.  So  very  different 
from  Anne.  We  expected  her  yesterday,  but  instead 
come  nothing  but  wires.  In  the  meanwhile,  of  course, 
the  house  is  in  an  uproar. ' ' 

There  was  a  silence  that  could  be  felt,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  but  Mr.  Knyvett  acquiesced  in  this  observation. 

"But  what  can  you  expect,"  said  Mr.  Hereford,  "of 
a  young  woman  who  is  learning  to  inspect  meat?" 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Knyvett,  his  faculties  on  the  strain 
from  the  fact  that  his  ears  were  listening  for  the  rustle 
of  two  petticoats. 

"To  inspect  meat,"  said  Mr.  Hereford,  raising  his 
voice,  "for  that  is  the  latest  craze  of  this  amazing  fe- 
male. Public  health  work,  they  call  it,  and  that  means 
haunting  the  abattoirs  of  Liverpool.  Faugh!" 

"Seems  queer,"  said  Knyvett.  "But  I  suppose  it's 
all  right.  If  meat  has  to  be  eaten,  meat  must  be  in- 
spected. ' ' 

"But  not  by  a  woman,"  said  Mr.  Hereford  firmly. 
"I  was  always  against  a  medical  course  for  Anne,  but 
Sara  would  not  be  deterred  from  allowing  it  by  any- 
thing I  could  say.  I  always  find  that  when  it's  a  ques- 
tion of  herself,  Sara  yields  to  me,  but  when  it  concerns 
Anne,  she's  a  nether  millstone  of  obstinacy.  She  goes 


CHRYSOSTOM  29 

her  own  way  then  and  Anne  leads  her  by  the  nose.  I 
have  known  Sara  positively  violent  about  letting  Anne 
have  her  way  and  implacable  to  a  degree  scarcely  credi- 
ble in  a  gentlewoman." 

Old  age  is  loose-mouthed,  a  revealer  of  hidden 
thoughts. 

' '  The  only  person  Sara  loves  is  Anne, ' '  continued  Mr. 
Hereford,  "and  she  is  doing  her  best  to  ruin  the  girl's 
life.  It  is  just  an  instance  of  what  I  have  always  main- 
tained, that  a  woman  should  never  love.  She  can't 
stand  so  strong  a  passion.  Sara  has  no  particular  af- 
fection for  me  and  after  ten  years  of  marriage  she  isn't 
likely  to  have  much  left  for  her  husband,  yet  to  both  of 
us  she  acts  ideally.  As  daughter  and  wife  she  is  all 
that  a  father  and  husband  could  desire.  She  is  only 
unwise  where  she  loves.  Never,  my  dear  Knyvett,  com- 
mit the  indiscretion  of  marrying  a  woman  that  loves 
you.  You  might  as  well  put  your  head  in  a  hangman's 
noose. ' ' 

"But  how,"  said  the  practical  captain,  "are  you  to 
get  a  woman  to  marry  you  when  she  doesn  't  love  you  ? ' ' 

"She'll  think  she  does.  That's  enough.  That's  Na- 
ture's way.  Love-making  is  a  process  of  hypnotism,  of 
snake-charming.  Once  swallowed,  the  woman  recovers 
a  healthy  normality.  I  have  often  thought  of  writing 
a  book  on  the  subject.  I  might  have  been  a  second  Nor- 
dau  had  I  given  my  mind  to  science.  But  I  was  always 
too  versatile." 

Knyvett  groaned  and  in  order  to  cover  the  noise  got 
up  to  poke  the  fire.  Here  he  was  shut  up  with  an  old 
man  who  seemed  bent  on  unlocking  all  the  skeleton  cup- 
boards in  the  Hereford  household.  It  was  intolerable  to 
him,  this  vivisection  of  his  lady's  life.  But  there  was 
no  escape. 

"Anne  was  a  charming  girl,"  continued  old  Vin, 
"the  very  virginal  type  of  a  Botticelli.  Tiny  neck, 
delicate  head,  bird-like  ways.  Irresistible !  Never  went 


30  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

anywhere  without  creeping  insidiously  into  every  man's 
heart.  The  pathetic  little  look  was  enough." 

"Wholesome  for  the  men,  d'you  think?"  queried 
Knyvett.  He  was  not  sensitive  on  the  subject  of 
Anne. 

"Wholesome  is  a  word  that  ought  to  be  banished  from 
the  vocabulary  of  a  civilised  people.  It  is  'wholesome- 
ness'  that  has  ruined  Anglo-Saxon  art.  Woman  is  a 
delicate  condiment,  a  spice,  the  gift  of  the  High  Gods." 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  skull-cap,  while  Mr.  Knyvett 
watched  the  two  sisters  approaching  the  house  and  won- 
dered how  Sara  stood  this  sort  of  thing  day  after  day. 
For  Vin  Hereford  was  one  of  those  terrors  who  regard 
the  domestic  hearthstone  as  a  lecture  platform  framed 
for  man's  convenience  by  the  connivance  of  the  cen- 
turies. 

"There  is  Anne!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hereford,  at  last 
becoming  aware  of  his  surroundings.  "Terrible!" 

He  shuddered  slightly  as  a  hearty  voice  called  ' '  Hullo, 
dad,"  through  the  window.  Yet  there  was  nothing  ter- 
rible in  the  small,  trim  figure  in  dark  green  travelling 
suit  with  stout,  well-cut  shoes  that  tapped  briskly  along 
to  the  tune  of  their  wearer's  sense  of  happy  fitness. 
With  her  keen,  deep-set  grey  eyes  beneath  a  forehead 
crossed  with  long  lines,  few  but  significant,  Anne  Here- 
ford looked  things  in  the  face,  both  men,  women,  and 
facts.  She  quite  obviously  weighed,  balanced,  judged; 
it  was  that  fact  of  appraisement,  indeed,  that  removed 
her  very  far  from  the  type  to  which  her  sister  belonged. 
But  the  charm  of  it  lay  in  her  fearlessness;  if  things 
were  not,  on  the  whole,  good,  they  were  at  any  rate 
capable  of  being  made  better.  She  was,  therefore,  not 
reckless,  but  calm  and  wise.  Billy  Knyvett  preferred  it 
to  the  Botticelli  virgin. 

With  a  pleasant  wind  of  bustle  Anne  got  herself  and 
her  boxes  upstairs. 

"Now,  then,"  said  she,  framing  her  sister's  face  in 


CHRYSOSTOM  31 

her  hands  as  soon  as  they  were  alone.  "Himm!  So 
that's  you,  is  it?  Don't  think  much  of  you,  then. 
Peaky,  decidedly  peaky.  And  where 's  Archer?"  she 
asked,  turning  away  to  the  glass  and  shaking  her  head 
to  loosen  the  hairpins. 

Anne  was  a  person  not  yet  starched  to  buckram;  she 
twitched  her  toes  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Archer?"  said  Sara  vaguely.  "Oh,  Archer's  get- 
ting local  colour,  I  believe." 

Anne  looked  round  at  her  with  mouth  slightly  open. 
Her  tip-tilted  nose  rather  made  for  impertinence. 

"His  last  book  was  rot,"  said  she.  "The  tone — de- 
plorable. ' ' 

"So  the  critics  said,"  agreed  Sara. 

"You  didn't  like  it,  surely?"  asked  Anne. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Sara,  opening  the  wardrobe 
door  placidly.  She  was  an  excellent  housekeeper  and 
the  shelves  were  tissue-papered  and  lavendered.  In  the 
matter  of  her  husband's  book  she  might  have  been  talk- 
ing of  Chaucer,  for  all  the  warmth  of  her  manner. 

Suddenly  something  gave  way  in  her,  something  cold 
and  congealing. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  putting  an  arm  round  Anne's 
camisoled  shoulder,  "it  is  good  to  have  you  back." 

"But  you  weren't  sure  of  it  when  you  came  down  to 
the  gate  to  meet  me, ' '  said  Anne,  narrowing  eyes  at  her 
sister's  reflection  in  the  glass. 

' '  I  thought  you  would  think  it  mean  of  me  that  I  had 
to  bring  you  back,"  said  Sara  slowly,  painfully.  "I 
tried  hard,  Anne,  not  to  have  to  do  it. ' ' 

"I  was  a  selfish  beast  to  have  gone  on  taking  the 
money. ' ' 

"Dear,  there  was  plenty  till  lately." 

"Dad,"  said  Anne  plainly,  "is  a  costly  old  ornament. 
Z  know.  But  I'm  glad  in  a  way  to  be  back.  Won't  it 
be  fine  to  kick  up  my  heels  in  my  own  pastures. ' ' 

Sara  hesitated.     Should  she  mention  Mr.  Knyvett's 


32  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

wish  to  advance  the  money  ?  But  no,  it  was  unthinkable, 
the  mere  offer,  still  less  the  acceptance  of  it. 

On  the  landing  Anne  paused,  bright-eyed  and  mis- 
chievous. Leaning  over  the  rail,  she  contemplated  the 
hall  below.  It  was  as  silent  as  the  ancestors  on  the 
walls.  Only  the  clattering  of  plates  came  from  behind 
the  baize-covered  door  that  led  to  the  older  part  of  the 
house. 

"Dare  I?"  said  Anne  to  her  sister,  putting  her  head 
on  one  side  like  a  bird  when  he  raises  a  song  to  the  god 
of  raspberries. 

The  next  moment  there  came  a  slithering  noise  of 
skirts  followed  by  a  thud ;  Anne  had  slid  down  the  ban- 
isters. Demurely  Sara  followed,  wondering  why  Anne 
retained  the  jolly  ways  of  a  child — or  a  man.  But  she 
knew,  for  Anne  had  been  out  in  the  world  where  one  does 
things.  She  had  not  stayed  at  home  listening  to  the 
wind  in  the  trees,  to  the  noise  made  by  the  footsteps  of 
the  future.  It  was  the  best  thing  that  Sara  had  ever 
done,  that  sending  of  Anne  into  action.  Very  warm 
at  heart,  she  followed  the  girl  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  Mr.  Knyvett  was  still  acting  as  a  conduit. 

' '  Harmony, ' '  Mr.  Hereford  was  saying  with  his  fingers 
neatly  fitted  in  the  shape  of  a  pointed  arch,  "harmony 
is  the  thing  we  neglect  in  modern  life.  We  must  not 
jar,  we  must  vibrate  in  unison." 

He  had  closed  his  eyes  and  was  gently  swaying  to  and 
fro  to  his  own  eloquence.  Sara,  turning  James,  the  fox- 
terrier,  over  on  his  back,  rubbed  his  stomach  with  her 
foot,  while  Anne  winked  a  ribald  wink  at  Mr.  Knyvett. 
Mr.  Hereford  always  spoke  in  clear,  silvery  tones,  with 
measured  precision,  even  if  he  were  only  discussing  the 
varying  richness  of  his  eleven  o'clock  bowl  of  broth. 

"Let  us  all  be  frankly  hedonistic.  Then  the  problem 
of  the  universe  is  solved.  For  if  I  'm  looking  after  your 
happiness,  while  nobody  is  looking  after  mine,  then  one 
of  us  is  left  out  in  the  cold.  Whereas  if  I  look  after 


CHRYSOSTOM  33 

mine,  and  you  look  after  yours,  things  are  kept  in  equi- 
librium. ' ' 

"Just  so,"  said  Anne  drily,  "that's  why  I  couldn't 
make  out  why  you  didn't  want  me  to  go  in  for  medi- 
cine. ' ' 

Mr.  Hereford  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  at  her  wist- 
fully. "You  had,"  said  he,  "the  wrong  idea  of  your 
own  happiness." 

"Then  that's  where  your  theory  of  economics  breaks 
down,  Dad.  For  if  everybody  is  going  to  interfere  with 
everybody  else's  theories  of  happiness,  then  we  shall  be 
all  running  round  after  each  other 's  tails,  in  exactly  the 
same  uneconomical  way  you  hate." 

"A  woman's  brain  should  never  concern  itself  with 
theories,"  said  he,  shifting  his  ground.  "Her  life 
should  be  like  that  of  a  flower.  Remember  always  the 
line,  'the  heart  of  Being  is  celestial  rest.'  And  woman 
is  at  the  heart  of  Being,  her  sole  duty  to  give  us  beauti- 
ful children." 

' '  Brainless  ? ' '  queried  Anne,  with  raised  eyebrows. 

* '  I  beg  your  pardon  ? ' ' 

"I  said,  did  you  want  beautiful,  but  brainless,  chil- 
dren, Dad,"  said  Anne,  speaking  louder.  "For  that's 
the  sort  of  babies  you  get  from  that  kind  of  woman, 
the  sort  that  can't  think.  And  the  funny  thing  is  that 
some  of  us  women  quite  like  thinking.  It  doesn't  hurt 
a  bit.  And  you  see,  we  do  feel  just  a  little  responsible 
for  things,  things  in  general,  you  know — babies  among 
other  things." 

"Ah,"  said  he  sorrowfully,  "the  responsibility  for 
the  universe  was  not  invented  in  my  days.  It  is  a  dis- 
tressing thing.  It  has  destroyed  home  comfort,  it  has 
turned  Woman  into  a  Medusa,  a  Fury,  a  Megsera,  a 
Gorgon. ' ' 

A  flush  appeared  on  his  cheeks.  Both  daughters  re- 
garded it  with  alarm,  for  a  fit  of  rage  might  be  fatal. 
But  it  was  Billy  who  intervened. 


34  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

' ' I 've  no  quarrel  with  the  age, ' '  said  he ;  "to  me  it 's  a 
jolly  good  age.  And  life  can't  be  a  bad  thing,  if  seventy 
years  of  it  produce  a  "William  de  Morgan." 

"It's  all  hollow,  Knyvett,  everything's  hollow,"  said 
the  old  man,  to  whom  d'Annunzio  was  the  last  word  in 
novelists. 

"Then  I  like  hollowness,"  said  Knyvett  obstinately. 

"And  that's  a  lie,  you  know,  old  Heart  of  Oak," 
whispered  Anne  as  she  opened  the  piano,  ran  her  hands 
over  the  keys  and  presently  burst  into  one  of  Liza  Leh- 
mann's  songs.  In  the  light  of  the  room,  with  Anne's 
low,  caressing  voice  in  his  ears,  Mr.  Hereford  was 
soothed.  He  had  a  grudge  against  life  because  there 
were  fogs,  frosts,  darkness  and  trouble  that  could 
not  always  be  avoided.  The  song  ended,  he  returned  to 
serious  matters. 

"I  hope,"  said  he,  "that  you  will  do  over  the  furnish- 
ing of  your  room,  Anne.  It  is  barbarous  at  present. 
Our  rooms,  our  houses,  should  be  all  in  one  tone.  Let 
there  be  no  mixture  of  styles,  such  as  we  see  to-day,  of 
classic  and  Georgian." 

Sara's  humour  bubbled  up;  here  was  she  with  less 
than  a  five-pound  note  in  her  pocket  till  her  husband 
got  home.  And  her  own  banking  account  overdrawn, 
while  the  old  man  babbled  of  art  periods. 

Anne  followed  the  thought  and  sitting  on  the  tiger- 
skin  rug,  gurgled  blissfully. 

"Or  Edwardian,  Dad,"  said  she  gently. 

He  shuddered.  ' '  Is  there  such  a  style,  my  dear  ?  But 
if  there  were,  I  am  sure  Sara  would  have  introduced 
it  here.  It  is  bound  to  be  cheap,  and  to  listen  to  Sara, 
one  would  suppose  that  cheapness  is  the  one  desideratum 
in  life." 

"The  kitchen  pots  and  pans,  Father,"  said  Sara,  "are 
Edwardian,  else,  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  your 
dinner," 


CHRYSOSTOM  35 

Just  at  that  moment  the  gong  sounded  from  across 
the  hall. 

' ' Good  biz, ' '  cried  Anne,  scrambling  to  her  feet. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  as  they  crossed  the  hall,  the  heels  of 
the  women  tapping  up  into  the  stillness ;  it  was  a  house 
of  exceedingly  lofty  rooms.  "If  only  I  could  induce 
you  to  bring  back  the  spit  and  the  joint  slowly  turned 
on  a  jack  in  front  of  the  fire.  The  delicate  flavour  is 
preserved,  the  juices  are  retained.  That  would  make  the 
culinary  regions  beautiful,  a  delight  to  the  mind.  And 
Dutch  crockery,  too,  so  fitting." 

And  Sara  stands  this  every  night  of  her  life,  thought 
Anne.  Then  she  looked  across  the  table  and  what  she 
saw  on  the  other's  quiet  face  made  her  blink.  It  was 
not  impatience,  not  boredom,  but  a  wish,  a  very  dis- 
tinctly expressed  wish  of  something  cold  and  full  of  hate, 
something  so  naked  in  its  intensity  that  Anne  looked  at 
her  plate  and  shivered.  Becoming  aware  that  there  was 
something  very  seriously  amiss  in  this  house,  she  began 
in  the  bright  light  of  the  well-lit  room  with  its  great  oil 
paintings  revealing  here  a  limb  and  there  a  head  out  of 
an  expanse  of  dirty  ochre,  to  feel  as  if  she  were  in  one 
of  those  inns  which  horrify  young  students  of  German 
with  their  secret  staircases  and  lurking  trap-doors. 

Then  the  absurdity  struck  her  and  she  laughed. 

"Sara,"  said  Mr.  Hereford,  "these  stuffed  tomatoes 
have  eggs  in  them  again.  It  should  be  forced  meat.  I 
distinctly  said  so  last  Thursday." 

"I  will  tell  Elizabeth,  father." 

Anne  rushed  to  fill  the  breach. 

"Have  you  tried  the  new  idea,  dad,  of  unfired  food?" 
she  said.  ' '  Carrots  and  nuts  shredded  and  pressed  into 
a  paste,  you  know.  It  is  said  to  supply  the  body  with 
the  vitality  that  it  wants,  that  would  otherwise  be  lost  in 
cooking. ' ' 

"Very  interesting  indeed.  I  have  heard  something 
of  it.  You  must  tell  me  more. ' ' 


36  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Anne,"  said  Sara  in  a  low  voice; 
as  he  turned  to  help  himself  to  another  dish,  ''don't  go 
upsetting  his  digestion  with  raw  turnips.  I  've  only  just 
fixed  up  his  proper  puddings  and  soups." 

She  thought  ruefully  of  the  various  megrims  that  her 
treasure,  Elizabeth,  had  already  to  satisfy,  for  when 
Archer  was  at  home  his  writing  powers  had  to  be  stimu- 
lated by  a  suitable  diet  which  varied  from  caviare  to 
milk  puddings,  according  to  the  work  that  was  on  the 
stocks. 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Hereford,  "to  return  to  the  decora- 
tions of  your  room.  I  always  feel  that  this  wall  paper 
is  a  mistake.  Red  is  too  blatant  for  a  dining-room.  It 
has,  I  believe,  a  harmful  effect  on  the  digestion.  Red 
dining-rooms  have  more  to  do  with  appendicitis  than 
people  suppose.  But  such  a  topic  to  raise!  What  can 
I  be  thinking  of?" 

And  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  fallen  from  grace,  he 
returned  to  his  dinner. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,"  said  Anne,  standing  on  the  terrace  out- 
side when  the  meal  was  over.  "Let  me  fill  my  lungs. 
Billy,  do  you  know  there  are  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  evenings  in  the  year  and  on  every  one  of  them  Sara 
talks  parlour-talk?" 

It  was  always  impossible  to  mention  anything  but  Mr. 
Hereford's  chosen  topics  in  his  presence;  his  will  was 
a  mighty  force. 

' '  Ye  gods !  tell  me  about  the  roaring  seas  of  the  Horn 
and  what  was  it — 

"  'Down,  down,  down,  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  dead  men  crawl  upon  hand  and  knee.' 

I  want  to  man  the  yard-arm,  to  con  the  ship,  to — to — 
swarm  the  mizzenmast." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Knyvett,  "but  I  must  bring  up  my 
queer  fish,  Bodinar,  to  see  you." 


CHRYSOSTOM  37 

"And  Peter,  don't  forget  him.  I'm  just  craving  for 
Peter." 

"And  so  he  is  for  you.  Yet  you  laugh.  You're  a 
fiend,  Anne." 

"Well,  Peter  always  seems  to  me  like  a  character  in 
a  weak  novel  that  the  author  couldn't  get  the  hang  of 
nohow. ' ' 

"That  is  merely  because  his  poverty  puts  him  in  a 
false  position  with  you.  He  has  stood  aloof  on  pur- 
pose. ' ' 

"And  that  just  shows  that  he  is  only  looking  at  my 
outside  and  knows  nothing  about  me  at  all.  For  if  I 
marry  I  stand  on  my  own  feet.  I  don't  marry  for  a  liv- 
ing. Ring  or  no  ring  will  make  no  difference  to  me  in 
that  respect.  Shocked,  Billy?" 

"Not  from  you,  Anne,"  replied  Knyvett,  placidly 
exhaling  smoke.  "But  I  want  you  to  oblige  me  by  tak- 
ing a  weight  off  your  sister's  shoulders." 

"Off  Sara's?     How?" 

"By  letting  me  advance  the  money  needed  to  enable 
you  to  complete  your  professional  training." 

"Sara  told  you?" 

He  nodded,  while  she  mused,  lips  pursed. 

"It'll  be  a  kindness  to  me." 

' '  To  give  you  a  chance  of  doing  something  for  Sara, ' ' 
she  said  bluntly.  ' '  Yes,  I  know.  Well,  I  accept,  if  you 
let  me  pay  five  per  cent.  I  say  five,  not  four,  because  I 
might  die  before  you  get  your  money  back." 

"Sara,"  cried  Knyvett  triumphantly,  as  she  passed 
the  open  window  of  the  drawing-room,  "I've  won. 
Anne 's  the  business  woman  of  the  family. ' ' 

"You  mean  she  will  take  money  from  you?"  Her 
tone  was  icy. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  take  it?"  exclaimed  Anne.  "Just 
because  it's  a  man  giving  a  leg  up  to  a  woman.  Silly, 
highfalutin,  old-fashioned  humbug.  Wait  until  you 


38  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

yourself  are  put  in  such  a  fix  that  you  must  take  help. 
See  what  you'll  do  then.  Why,  to  refuse  is  to  deny 
Billy  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  he'll  ever  have." 

The  two  dark  figures  on  the  terrace,  the  bright  point 
of  Knyvett's  cigar,  the  tall  figure  inside  against  the 
lighted  background  of  the  room,  Anne's  words:  of  such 
materials  was  made  the  moment  that  memory  registered 
indelibly  in  three  brains. 


CHAPTER  III 

RUTH  AMID  .THE   ALIEN    CORN:    IN    THIS    IS    ACCOMPLISHED 
A   RESURRECTION 

IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  Anne  Hereford  opened 
her  bedroom  door  that  night.  The  wind  was  whis- 
tling through  every  keyhole  and  the  walls  of  the  house 
were  straining  like  the  timbers  of  a  labouring  ship. 
While  the  flame  of  her  candle  flickered  in  the  draught 
of  the  passage,  she  hesitated  outside  her  sister's  closed 
room.  The  door  was  so  massive,  so  forbidding  in  its 
firm  fitting,  that  she  dared  not  tap  at  its  winking  sur- 
face. 

For  Anne  knew  that  she  was  up  against  something 
like  a  wall  in  Sara's  nature,  some  strong  bar  hiding  fire 
and  pain.  Fresh  as  she  was  from  the  struggle  with 
material  facts,  the  facts  of  germ  and  atom,  of  organ  and 
function,  the  intangible  interactions  of  character  that 
she  felt  in  this  house  seemed  like  furtive  footsteps  pass- 
ing to  and  fro  with  a  whistle  of  the  air  as  the  sound  of 
their  going.  In  the  open  battle  against  ignorance  and 
darkness  the  note  was  elation,  but  here  one  fought  in  the 
mist,  one  knew  not  what. 

As  she  stood  close  to  his  door  in  a  lull  of  the  wind 
she  could  hear  the  steady  breathing  of  the  old  man's 
sleep ;  from  her  sister 's  room  not  a  sound. 

Then  Anne  slipped  noiselessly  down  the  stairs,  her 
unstockinged  feet  rising  white  from  the  furry  tops  of 
her  soft  slippers.  Gently  opening  the  green  baize  door 
she  peeped  into  the  rear  of  the  house.  This  action  took 
her  back  two  or  three  centuries,  for  at  Craneham  a  late 

39 


40  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Georgian  front  had  been  built  on  to  a  Jacobean  house 
that  had  once  been  a  farm.  Here  was  a  second  stair- 
case, with  plain  oak  banisters,  white-washed  walls,  and  a 
wide  low  window  half-way  up  the  stairs.  Above  were 
white,  plastered  bedrooms  with  doors  of  oak  made  before 
the  days  of  the  plane.  Beneath,  the  stone-flagged  pas- 
sages led  to  a  raftered  kitchen  with  window  seats  on  each 
side  of  the  great  range  where  once  had  stood  an  open 
fireplace. 

In  front  of  the  grate  crouched  the  bent  form  of  an 
old  woman  with  a  high,  fluted  French  cap  on  her  head 
and  a  black  and  white  checkered  shawl  over  her  curving 
shoulder-blades.  She  creaked  ominously  as  she  turned, 
for  on  the  withered  frame  the  buckramed  armour  of  a 
thick  pair  of  corsets  held  up  the  lax  yielding  of  the 
muscles.  The  light  of  a  candle  cast  the  hooked  nose  and 
nut-cracker  jaws  in  shadow  like  a  wavering  interroga- 
tion mark  on  the  white  side-wall.  Gazing  into  the  fire 
sat  Boulou  and  Baby,  the  ancient  wizened  black  cat  and 
her  elegant  seal-brown  Persian  daughter,  both  with  pro- 
files as  contemptuous  as  the  head  of  Osiris.  Neither 
the  cats  nor  the  old  woman  moved  at  Anne 's  entrance,  for 
the  cats  were  filled  with  meat  and  Elizabeth  had  a  rage 
at  heart  because  Anne,  her  nursling,  had  not  come  to 
her  before. 

"So,"  said  she,  raising  her  eyebrows,  "so,  it  is  thou. 
I  was  on  my  way  to  bed. ' ' 

She  yawned  ostentatiously.  Her  mouth  was  cavern- 
ous from  the  lack  of  teeth,  for  she  was  in  deshabille. 
Then  Anne  seized  her  by  the  shoulders  and  planted  a 
smacking  kiss  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead  that  was 
wrinkled  like  the  skin  round  a  parrot's  eye. 

"Crabs,  Elizabeth,  crabs!  You  knew  I'd  come.  But 
I  felt  all  shivered  up  the  back.  That's  why  I  didn't 
come  before." 

Her  heart  smote  her  for  unkindness,  for  le  ton  Dieu 
alone  knows  how  long  the  old  woman  would  have  stayed 


RUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN  41 

up  watching  and  waiting.  Meanwhile  Anne  was  search- 
ing for  a  certain  square  biscuit  tin  kept  at  the  back  of 
the  corner  cupboard  by  the  window.  It  was  so  high 
up  on  the  wall  that  she  had  to  stand  on  the  sofa  to 
reach  it,  while  Elizabeth  watched  her  with  the  bright 
blue  eyes  that  supplied  the  one  unfaded  bit  of  colour 
in  the  old  face. 

' '  Good, ' '  said  Anne,  dragging  off  the  cover.  ' '  So  thou 
didst  not  omit  the  preparations,  though  thou  art  as  sour 
to-night  as  Seine  water  after  a  flood." 

She  had  fallen  into  the  tutoyer  familiar  to  her  child- 
hood, for  Elizabeth  was  a  Frenchwoman.  Then,  taking 
a  handful  of  chestnuts  from  the  tin,  she  began  to  place 
them  delicately  between  the  bars  of  the  grate.  These 
chestnuts  were  always  in  the  tin  against  her  return,  for 
Elizabeth  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  taking  a  bath 
as  of  omitting  the  chestnut  rite. 

These  arrangements  made,  Anne  turned  to  the  parcel 
she  had  left  on  the  table  and  cast  about  for  a  knife  to 
cut  the  string,  but  Elizabeth  forestalled  her  and  fell  on 
the  packet  tooth  and  nail. 

"Careless!"  exclaimed  she,  "a  string  is  a  string  and 
is  it  not  good  for  another  day  ?  Thou  wilt  come  to  want 
through  such  ways." 

Anne  was  inwardly  trembling  at  the  thought  of  the 
gift  she  had  brought  the  old  woman.  For  they  were 
bifurcated  garments,  these  offerings  of  hers,  fleecy, 
warm,  comforting,  but  with  a  note  of  male  impropriety 
about  them. 

"Oh,  so  soothing,  so  comforting,"  pleaded  Anne. 
' '  They  will  be  so  good  for  thy  rheumatism.  Think,  try 
them,  see,  they  fit  marvellously  well. ' ' 

She  stretched  them  out  against  Elizabeth's  gaunt  fig- 
ure. 

"Bah!  little  beast,"  twinkled  Elizabeth,  who  was  as 
pagan  a  soul  as  ever  crawled.  "And  what  will  my 
guardian  angel  say?  Me,  me  a  virgin  of  nearly  eighty 


42  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

years  in  these — these !  Shameless  one,  thou  wilt  come 
to  a  bad  end.  Shall  Elizabeth  wear  a  forked  garment  ? ' ' 

But  her  hand  was  sinking  lovingly  in  the  lamblike  al- 
lure of  them.  It  was  irresistible;  the  corners  of  her 
toothless  jaws  began  to  mow  with  pleasure. 

"Elizabeth,"  said  Anne,  as  she  gently  prodded  the 
chestnuts  with  a  toasting-fork  from  the  stool  where  she 
sat  between  the  cats,  "don't,  I  beseech  you,  stuff  to- 
matoes with  eggs  again.  Dad  doesn't  like  them  so." 

"Ah,  ce  Monsieur!  All  the  day  he  think,  think,  think 
of  himself.  And  change!  Mon  Dieu,  how  he  does 
change.  You  never  can  tell.  It  will  be  eggs  with  toma- 
toes next  time.  And  Madame  so  tired  of  it  all. ' ' 

"Elizabeth,  are  things  worse  than  they  used  to  be? 
Dad  was  always  more  or  less — so." 

"Sacre  nom,  and  don't  I  know  it?  Have  I  not  served 
Monsieur's  whims  for  years  upon  years?" 

She  outstretched  her  palms  fanwise. 

"But  what  about  my  sister?" 

"It  is  this  way  with  Madame.  She  hath  nothing, 
nothing  at  all  for  her  own  heart.  Voyez,  cherie,  you  do 
put  away  fruit  conserves  and  leave  them  month  by 
month,  year  by  year.  Then  you  look  and  the  fruits  are 
all  dried — dust.  Fit  for  nozzing  but  to  sweep  away. 
So  it  is  with  Madame.  Everything  dry,  dead,  withered, 
fit  to  sweep  away.  No  child,  no  love,  no  business.  Noz- 
zing. And  to  think  the  old  Monsieur's  thoughts  all  the 
day!  Chut!  over  and  over  again,  day  by  day,  week  by 
week,  month  by  month. ' ' 

"But—" 

"Voyez  done/'  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  catching  up  the 
candle  and  crossing  the  kitchen.  She  touched  the  corner 
of  the  table  to  steady  herself.  In  the  passage  she  opened 
a  side  door  and  held  up  her  candle. 

The  two  looked  into  a  long  room  lined  with  laden 
book  shelves  of  fumed  deal.  Gobelin  curtains  drawn 
across  the  windows  kept  out  the  night  wind.  There  were 


RUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN  43 

white  narcissi  from  France  in  long  glasses  on  the  mantel- 
piece over  which  was  an  oval  Bartalozzi  print.  And  on 
the  great  writing-table  lay  the  paraphernalia  of  a  writer, 
ready,  waiting,  polished  and  dustless. 

''Monsieur  Bellew's  work  room.  Always  like  that  for 
him.  Madame  puts  fresh  flowers  whether  he  is  away  or 
not.  She  fails  in  nozzing.  It  is  always  pairfect  for 
him." 

Anne's  eyes  suddenly  grew  bright  as  though  tears 
were  coming,  yet  she  knew  that  she  had  only  partially 
caught  the  old  woman's  meaning. 

"Yes,  Madame  leaves  nozzing  undone.  But  it  is  all 
dead.  It  is  Dutee.  Bah !  I  do  loathe  Dutee !  Give  me 
love." 

"With  these  remarkable  sentiments  for  an  ancient  vir- 
gin, she  returned  to  the  kitchen  fire. 

"For  you,"  she  continued,  "Madame  did  not  buy 
market  flowers.  She  go  out  and  pick  the  little  violet  for 
your  room,  and  the  primrose  just  three  inches  high,  for 
Madame  has  one  thing  to  love  and  that  is  you,  the 
babee.  Her  homme  a  elle,  he  is  the  Dutee,  he  has  the 
market  flowers.  But  she  will  never  neglect,  never  waste. 
Madame  Sara  rise  from  the  bed  of  death  to  do  her  Dutee. 
Bah!  I  spit." 

She  was  fierce,  but  of  a  marvellous  comprehension. 
Her  eyes  were  as  gimlets,  for  her  heart  was  passionately 
Madam  e's.  She  had  the  understanding  of  perfect  love. 
And  if  perfect  love  does  not  cast  out  fear,  it  has  at 
any  rate  not  even  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  stu- 
pidity. 

"Elizabeth,"  asked  Anne,  "is  there  anything  worse 
than  estrangement  and  loneliness  ? ' ' 

For  answer  the  old  woman  seized  her  hand  and  pulled 
her  towards  the  door.  Opening  it,  she  stood  on  the 
threshold.  A  flagged  path  lost  in  the  darkness  stretched 
out  in  front  of  them.  Tiny,  mossy  crevices  filled  the  in- 
terspaces. 


44  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Ecoutez,"  said  Elizabeth,  holding  up  the  withered 
forefinger  of  an  ancient  beldame,  "Ecoutex  done." 

Anne  listened;  from  over  the  hills  came  the  sound  of 
the  sea,  a  myriad-voiced  thing  that  tore  at  the  gates  of 
silence.  It  went  over  the  house  like  a  great  voice. 

They  shut  the  door,  struggling  with  the  storm  to  get 
it  fastened  with  the  massive  iron  bar  that  rested  on 
sockets  in  the  wall  on  each  side. 

"It  cries  like  that  nowadays,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I 
cannot  sleep  when  it  calls  like  that." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Troubles  like  that,  they  come  to  Madame."  She 
was  trembling  very  much.  "You  will  stay  home  a  while, 
won't  you,  ma  petite?  Just  to  cheer  Madame?  The 
house  stirs  with  you  in  it.  And  the  voices,  one  does  not 
hear  so  loud." 

Anne  was  afraid  to  question  further  lest  she  hap 
on  something  worse  than  her  fears.  She  shook  her- 
self. 

"It's  all  nonsense.  Besides,  there's  always  Billy  for 
a  strong  tower." 

"Ce  cher  Monsieur  Knyvett.  Ah,  yes,  he  come  here, 
once,  twice,  thrice  a  year.  He  watch ;  he  wait,  and  he — 
hunger.  And  when  he  was  here  last  time  he  come  to 
me  and  says  he: — 'Elizabeth,  if  ever  I'm  wanted  here. 
If  ever  there's  the  littlest  thing  I  can  do  for  Madame, 
send  for  me.  Promise  me  you  will.'  And  I  did.  He 
give  me  the  place  in  London  where  I  could  always  write. 
For  he  wander  up  and  down — everywhere.  And  behind 
Madame,  wherever  she  is,  is  Monsieur  Billee.  But 
Madame,  she  know  it  not." 

"But  why  should  she  go  on  like  this?  If  Archer 
doesn't  care  for  his  home,  I'd  let  out  and  go.  Dad 
wouldn  't  really  mind,  as  long  as  someone  gave  him  money 
and  kept  his  rooms  and  meals  right.  I'd  not  bear  it. 
Why  should  she?" 

"Tiens,"  said  Elizabeth,  "you  do  not  think.     The  mis- 


EUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN  45 

tress,  your  mother,  was  like  that.  There  was  not  any- 
thing for  her  in  the  world  but — him. ' ' 

Her  voice  was  indescribably  mixed  in  tenderness  and 
scorn.  "She  lived  for  him.  And  he  never  knew.  He 
was,  the  old  Monsieur,  said  she,  'a  song  bird  that  must 
sing  in  peace.'  Never,  never,  did  I  see  such  a  thing.  I 
would  have  turned  him  up,  had  he  been  my  man,  and 
made  him  sing  what  tunes  the  gamins  sing,  when  they  get 
their  whips.  But  no !  he  come  to  Paris  to  paint.  She 
ill  with  two  children.  But  he  care  not. 

' '  But  there  was  worse  to  follow.  Ah,  mon  Dieu,  when 
he  took  to  the  life  of  the  fields,  to  the  peasant  life,  he,  the 
white-handed.  We  all — he,  your  mother,  you  two  chil- 
dren and  I — we  drive  up  to  a  great  barn  place  in  the 
land  of  savages,  Cornwall,  far,  far  "West.  And  oh,  the 
grey,  grey  sea.  And  there  in  great  cold  rooms  in  mid- 
winter we  live.  No  meat ;  bloodless  food  for  us,  said  he. 
And  you,  pauvres  enfants,  to  be  fed  on  oats,  the  food  of 
the  donkeys.  And  not  a  word  did  she  say.  Only  smug- 
gled in  the  food  for  the  delicate  bellies  of  the  little 
ones.  Then  he  went  off  speaking,  lecturing,  on  what? 
Who  knows?  And  she  would  say,  'Ah,  Elizabeth,  he 
will  come  back  with  money  for  us  all.'  " 

"And  did  he?" 

"Did  he?  He  comes  back,  not  like  others  by  day,  but 
in  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night.  It  seemed  always 
winter  then.  I  can  see  her  now  with  a  petticoat  over 
her  head  in  her  red  gown  and  me  with  the  teeth  chatter- 
ing to  get  that  accursed  door  open." 

"But  the  money?" 

"He  had  brought  one  piece  of  gold  and  two  unpaid 
bills.  One  piece  of  gold  after  six  months'  work!  And 
thy  mother  she  put  an  arm  round  him  and  said,  'Ah, 
dearest,  but  thou  hast  struggled  for  us. '  And  then  put 
him  to  bed  with  a  hot  brick  that  I  had  to  heat. ' ' 

"But  how  strange  to  think  of  dad  even  trying  to 
earn." 


46  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"He  grows  old,"  said  Elizabeth  cynically,  "and  to 
grow  old  is  to  grow  wicked.  And  her  mother  left  him, 
her  biggest  child,  to  Madame,  thy  sister.  That  is  the 
way  of  it.  And  Madame  will  never  turn  back  from  the 
task.  But  she  sees  clear  and  that  makes  it  hard.  Her 
mother  never  did  and  that  made  it  easy.  Or  perhaps 
he  did  love — her.  They  had  memories  of  the  time  when 
he  adored.  That  is  the  way  of  it  with  married  folks. 
They  have  memories  of  the  good  time. ' ' 

Anne  was  lost  in  a  dream ;  in  every  house  the  tone  is 
set  by  one  character,  the  strongest,  or  at  any  rate,  the 
most  rapacious.  Old  Hereford's  claims  were  incessant, 
on  youth,  on  vitality,  on  gaiety.  He  had  laughed  joy- 
ously at  the  prospect  of  having  another  younger  life 
to  yield  its  warmth  and  zest  to  him.  That  was  the  rea- 
son of  his  jealousy  of  her  career.  Anne's  temper  rose 
in  revolt,  for  herself  and  her  sister. 

"But  Sara  has  her  memories,  too,  the  memories  of 
married  folk  that  thou  hast  just  mentioned,  Elizabeth." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  then  the  old  woman 
said,  as  though  groping  for  a  meaning : 

"Monsieur  Belle w,  he  grow  like  the  old  Monsieur. 
They  read  the  books  together.  Monsieur  Bellew  was  not 
like  it  when  he  come  here.  And  now  they  do  grind 
Madame  between  them  like  the  millstones.  It  is  all  self, 
self.  And  Madame  is  alone — between  them." 

Elizabeth  was  in  deep  waters;  Anne  refused  to  try 
even  to  follow  her.  Besides,  the  old  woman  had  always 
been  prejudiced  against  Archer.  Even  now  she  was 
trying  to  express  her  dislike  of  him. 

"His  eyes,"  grumbled  she,  "were  always  as  hard  as 
the  little  stones  in  the  brook." 

"Oh,  hang,"  said  Anne,  "why  can't  people  live  with- 
out tying  themselves  into  knots  ? ' ' 

Elizabeth  raised  her  hand  and  pointed  off  the  ill- 
omened  words  with  the  sign  against  the  evil  eye.  It 
was  her  one  religious  dogma,  a  belief  in  the  evil  eye.  She 


RUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN  47 

lay  awake  that  night  fulminating  curses  on  Anne 's  chest- 
nuts that  lay  in  hard  lumps  in  her  interior. 

It  was  a  strange  chance,  nay,  two  strange  chances  that 
had  brought  Elizabeth  to  share  the  fortunes  of  the  Here- 
ford family.  The  connection  had  begun  twenty-three 
years  ago  by  the  smashing  of  the  glass  door  at  the  top 
of  the  stone  staircase  leading  into  the  concierge's  court- 
yard in  the  pension  of  the  Rue  de  Milan  in  Paris,  whither 
Mr.  Hereford  had  brought  his  wife  and  children  to  live. 
In  the  tinkling  fall  of  the  shining  discs  brought  about 
by  her  broom  handle  Elizabeth  heard  the  crash  of  a  uni- 
verse, for  after  thirty  years  of  incessant  service  in  the 
Pension  she  knew  naught  of  all  the  wonders  beneath  the 
stars  save  the  steam-heated  rooms,  the  faded  bravery 
of  the  lofty,  gilded  walls,  the  shifts  and  tempers  of  the 
poverty-stricken  place.  A  railway  time-table  was  a  mys- 
tery to  her  and  she  had  never  seen  the  Opera  House. 

"Never  have  I  seen  such  doings,"  shouted  Madame  of 
the  Pension  to  Elizabeth,  ''never.  Last  night  you  told  a 
pensionnaire  who  wanted  hot  water  that  here  one  washes 
only  at  night.  And  to-day  this — " 

The  fracas  brought  Mrs.  Hereford  into  the  hall.  She 
stood  watching  Madame,  the  powdered  surface  of  whose 
puffy  face  was  heaving  like  the  sea  in  a  ground-swell. 
"You  shall  go,"  shrieked  she,  "and  out  of  your  wages 
you  shall  pay  for  the  pane.  Insolent,  ungrateful  beast, 
you  who  make  ten  centimes  on  every  candle,  besides  the 
profits  on  matches." 

Elizabeth's  head  shook  as  though  with  palsy.  But 
she  understood;  it  was  difficult  to  grind  enough  labour 
out  of  creaking  bones  like  hers,  especially  in  a  house 
built  centuries  ago  by  a  Scottish  nobleman  when  water 
and  gas  were  nothing  accounted  of.  Besides,  Elizabeth 
snapped  sometimes,  and  wore  a  wool  tippet  on  a  cold 
morning.  The  pensionnaires  laughed  at  her. 

Once  outside  the  Pension  walls,  the  roar  of  Paris 
seemed  to  Elizabeth  like  the  tide  of  a  human  sea.  On 


48  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

the  table  after  she  had  gone  Madame  found  a  ten  franc 
piece,  saved  from  vile  sulphur  matches  and  swift  burn- 
ing candles.  No  one  but  Anna,  the  concierge,  saw  her 
go,  as  she  scuttled  into  the  open  like  a  mouse  from  the 
wainscot. 

At  last  when  she  came  to  the  sullen  flow  of  the  Seine, 
something  caught  at  her  throat.  Yet  she  bought  hot 
chestnuts  and  warmed  her  hands  with  them  gallantly 
enough.  The  boulevards  were  wind-swept,  but  the 
gendarmes  were  kindly  directing  posts — when  she  had 
got  used  to  their  sex,  for  the  Pension  was  chiefly  in- 
habited by  women.  At  last  she  found  in  the  Boulevard 
Montparnasse  the  cheap  warren  that  an  art  student  had 
once  mentioned  and,  for  one  franc  fifty  centimes,  a  bed- 
room. Never  in  her  life  had  Elizabeth  encountered  so 
many  men,  and  when  the  valet  de  chambre  next  morning 
stood  outside  her  door  as  he  polished  the  boots  she  gave 
up  the  struggle  and  resigned  herself  to  the  world  of 
males  that  surged  outside  the  Rue  de  Milan. 

Later  the  grey  north  light  shone  full  on  the  row  of 
models,  drawn  up  on  the  platform  of  the  Academie 
Delecluse.  Elizabeth  had  not  lived  for  nothing  in  the 
air  of  Paris,  where  every  work-girl  knows  that  art  is  a 
metier  and  quite  distinct  from  sign-painting. 

At  the  quilled  cap  above  the  fierce  old  face,  storm- 
stressed,  the  master  paused  a  moment.  For  a  quick 
sketch  of  a  costume  model,  admirable.  He  whistled 
through  his  teeth  as  he  rattled  a  pencil  against  them,  lit- 
tle knowing  that  the  force  and  fire  in  the  face  before 
him  sprang  from  horror  at  his  own  innocent  scrutiny  on 
the  one  side  and  the  flash  of  the  Seine  on  the  other.  On 
the  knife-edge  between — Elizabeth. 

Then  she  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  "Let  me  see 
the  neck  and  head  bare, ' '  said  he  blandly.  Praying  piti- 
fully within,  Elizabeth  lifted  her  hands  to  the  cap  that 
covered  the  wisps  of  hair  on  her  shrunken  scalp.  No, 


RUTH  AMID  THE  ALIEN  CORN  49 

she  could  not  do  it.  It  was  ugly.  And  the  fibrous  neck, 
that  was  ugly,  too. 

In  that  moment  the  Seine  flashed,  and  the  candle- 
lighted  Rue  de  Milan  faded,  for  its  doors  were  closed. 
The  bare,  aged  head  next  moment  bowed  humbly  before 
the  eyes  of  Monsieur,  who  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that 
he  was  slaughtering  an  innocent. 

"A  fine  head,"  said  he,  ''chiselled,  chiselled.  The 
lines  leap  to  the  eyes.  I  have  it — a  good  idea. ' ' 

Then  he  turned  to  Vin  Hereford,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  scene  with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  He  recognized 
the  bonne  a  tout  faire  of  the  Pension  and  was  storing  up 
the  tale  as  a  good  one  to  tell  his  wife. 

"But,"  said  the  master  to  him,  "can  you  lend  me  the 
daughter,  the  little  Anne,  to-day,  Monsieur  Hereford, 
and  then  you  will  see?  It  will  be  a  good  study  of  old 
age  and  childhood." 

Then  they  had  lifted  into  Elizabeth's  arms  the  fair- 
haired  child  and  made  her  stoop  above  it,  touching  with 
her  lips  the  rosy  softness  of  its  face.  The  two  hailed 
each  other  as  old  friends,  for  it  was  not  by  any  means 
the  first  time  that  Elizabeth  had  held  the  small  Anne 
Hereford. 

Sitting  so,  while  the  babe  fell  asleep,  Elizabeth  forgot 
her  horror,  forgot  her  loneliness.  Queer  thoughts  came 
instead;  thoughts  of  the  life  she  had  missed  in  the  Rue 
de  Milan  in  her  thirty  years  of  chamber  serving.  Then 
the  child  stirred  and  they  let  her  get  down  from  the 
estrade. 

Somehow  Vin  Hereford  did  a  kind  thing,  by  one  of 
those  quick,  impulsive  instincts  that  every  now  and  then 
sent  his  wife  into  the  truly  conjugal  heaven  of  the  af- 
fectionate spouse.  He  walked  out  of  the  studio  by  the 
side  of  Elizabeth,  the  child  holding  hands  between  them. 
It  was  noon,  and  as  they  passed  a  restaurant,  ' '  Come  in 
here  and  let  us  eat  together,"  said  he.  "It  shall  be  a 


50  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

feast,  for  Anne  hath  earned  her  first  silver-piece  as 
model." 

That  night  the  child  fell  asleep  in  Elizabeth's  arms, 
tightly  clasping  Rene,  the  bear.  For  Elizabeth  had  been 
taken  home  by  Mr.  Hereford  and  once  there,  his  wife  in- 
sisted on  taking  pity  on  the  piece  of  human  flotsam,  on 
leaving  the  Pension  and  taking  her  with  them. 

They  found  refuge,  the  five  of  them,  in  the  cheap 
hotel  that  Elizabeth  had  discovered.  The  air  from  the 
half -open  window  at  the  head  of  her  bed  brought  rheuma- 
tism to  her  shoulders,  and  Elizabeth  had  all  a  French- 
woman's hatred  of  that  courant  d'air,  but  without  the 
open  window  the  bambino  would  have  stifled  in  the  rank 
smoke  from  next  door,  the  smoke  from  the  cigar  of  the 
Monsieur  who  apparently  never  slept.  Between  cigar- 
smoke  and  open  window,  Elizabeth  was  happy — as  she 
had  never  been  in  the  Rue  de  Milan.  In  the  blue  ichor 
of  her  sunken  veins  the  red  blood  tingled  with  life  as  the 
smooth  baby  limbs  stretched  against  hers. 

That  was  twenty-three  years  ago.  There  wras  no  hor- 
ror anywhere,  neither  in  the  cruel  north  light  of  the 
studio,  nor  in  the  Seine  gleam,  for  Elizabeth  had  en- 
tered into  a  rich  human  heritage.  There  was  Madame, 
the  kindly,  to  be  loved ;  there  was  Mademoiselle  Sara  to 
be  revered  for  possessing  youth,  beauty,  grace;  there 
was,  above  all,  la  petite  Anne,  aged  four,  to  be  slapped, 
washed,  fed  and  idolised.  Monsieur  was  a  cross,  but  the 
cross,  too,  is  human. 

Such  was  the  resurrection  of  Elizabeth  from  the  tomb 
of  servitude  in  the  Rue  de  Milan. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  ESSAY  IN   HEROICS:   IN   THIS  BILLY  KNYVETT  PUTS  ON 
WINGS   AND   SEVERAL  PEOPLE   EAT   DUCK 


D 


AWN  on  the  river  and  a  tenor  voice  singing  Field- 
ing's catch: — 

"The  dusky  Night  rides  down  the  Sky, 
And  ushers  in  the  Morn; 
The  Hounds  all  join  in  glorious  Cry, 
The  Huntsman  winds  his  Horn." 

So  sang  Philip  Hawkins,  uncle  on  the  mother's  side 
to  the  Hereford  sisters.  And  if  it  was  the  hairy  sea- 
man who  laid  the  match  to  Mr.  Knyvett's  resolve  to  go 
a-gold-hunting,  it  was  Uncle  Pip  who  stoked  up  the  fire 
thereof. 

Just  now  he  was  leaning  back  with  a  magnificent  air 
in  the  stern  sheets  of  a  waterman's  boat  as  it  shot  out 
from  the  quay.  Tucking  his  short  legs  away  beneath 
his  magnificent  paunch,  he  snuffed  the  morning  freshness 
with  wide  nostrils,  the  while  his  merry  green  eyes 
watched  the  bustle  of  the  opening  day. 

Behind  the  hills  stretched  a  slowly  widening  belt  of 
light.  Smoke  wreaths  left  behind  by  a  train  in  the  still 
air  of  the  valley  were  tinged  a  faint  rose-pink,  but  rising 
into  higher  levels,  shone  in  golden  splendour.  On  the 
hills  the  light  broadened  till  it  moved,  a  luminous  pres- 
ence, above  the  smoke-fog  of  the  low  lands.  Engines 
clanged  to  and  fro  in  the  station ;  bells  jangled  from  the 
anchored  vessels ;  the  clanging  arms  of  a  derrick  waved 
above  the  coaler  Obsidian.  Then  began  the  assault  of 
the  shipwright 's  hammers  on  a  bare-ribbed  vessel.  From 

51 


52  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

inland  came  the  lowing  of  cows,  the  clattering  of  milk- 
pails,  from  the  river  mouth  the  rattle  of  gear  aboard  a 
trawler  that  was  making  the  Narrows. 

"For  all  the  blessings  of  this  life,  good  Lord,  we  thank 
Thee,"  said  Uncle  Pip,  as  he  snuffed  vigorously  of  the 
sea  wind  and  smacked  his  chest  to  get  rid  of  the  smell 
of  the  feather-beds.  Never  was  there  a  truer  thanksgiv- 
ing than  his,  for  pleasure  was  the  breath  of  Uncle  Pip 's 
nostrils  and  the  only  thing  to  which  he  objected  was  the 
present  age  of  "tea-twaddle."  A  vast  Falstaffian  man, 
he  had  been  born  to  put  his  teeth  in  a  venison  pasty,  to 
bury  his  nose  in  a  black-jack.  He  delighted  in  the  sea 
noises,  in  the  sunshine  on  the  roses  or  the  cawing  of  the 
rooks  in  the  home  fields,  in  the  yeo-heave-ho  of  a  chanty 
or  the  smell  of  the  earth  after  rain.  And  as  for  meat  and 
drink !  his  portentous  belly  and  wide  mouth  were  made 
for  the  savouring  of  both. 

A  delicate  fancy  had  he,  too,  which  he  carefully  cher- 
ished for  the  joy  it  gave  him.  His  "When  I  went 
a-pirating  long,  long  ago,"  had  the  haunting  beauty  of 
the  blue  distance  about  it.  For  nothing  gave  him  greater 
pleasure  than  to  trace  along  the  cliffs  some  smugglers' 
route  where  old  lace  and  French  brandy  had  passed. 
Tender,  too,  was  he  and  would  stand  outside  the  houses 
at  Christmas  time,  listening  to  the  braying  of  tin  trum- 
pets and  the  shouts  of  the  children  behind  the  curtained 
windows.  The  zest  of  things  burnt  in  his  heart  like  a 
sea-coal  fire  in  some  tale  of  a  wind-swept  inn. 

So  he  approached  the  Pendragon  with  the  bait  of 
romance  bobbing  in  front  of  his  nose  and  for  sole  regret 
in  his  heart  a  sorrow  that  the  yacht  was  not  called 
Espiritu  Santu  and  fitted  with  a  figurehead  painted 
in  blue  and  gold.  For  consolation,  in  fancy,  he  cov- 
ered her  with  gold-dust. 

In  the  suck  of  the  ebb  she  was  swaying  slightly,  her 
hull  inky  black  in  the  shadows,  her  masts  and  varnished 
yards  glittering  in  the  sun.  Sharp  in  the  bow  like  a 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  53 

perfect  wedge,  bulky  aft  like  a  timber  vessel,  with  two 
whale  boats  amidships,  she  was  more  a  sealer  than  a 
yacht.  In  the  past  she  had  been,  in  fact,  a  ' '  Holy  Joe, ' ' 
or  mission  boat,  constructed  for  rough  use.  No  stranger 
to  the  green  shimmer  of  breaking  seas,  she  had  known 
the  steep  slopes  of  a  Cape  Horn  swell.  In  spite  of  paint 
and  brass-rubbing,  the  battering  of  waves  and  winds 
was  eloquent  on  timbers,  spars  and  running  tackle.  For 
she  had  attained  that  point  in  the  career  of  a  ship  when 
she  is  no  longer  the  mere  offspring  of  a  man's  brain, 
writ  over  with  his  strength  and  weakness,  but  is  instead 
a  personality  on  which  the  days  and  nights  have  left 
their  impress,  the  combers  of  the  Pacific,  the  greybeards 
of  the  Atlantic,  the  glassy  stare  of  the  doldrums,  no  less 
than  the  swift  hurtling  of  the  terrible  pampero.  She 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  old  and  new,  a  thirty-ton  yacht 
that  had  once  been  fitted  with  a  windlass.  Even  now 
the  old  cooks'  galley  remained,  a  boxlike  erection  to  lar- 
board of  the  fo'c'sle  hatch.  Gemmed  with  the  night 
dew,  her  yard-arms  glittered  like  steel  for  a  while. 

' '  Clack-clacka,  clack-clacka, "  came  fainter  and  more 
faint  the  creak  of  a  pair  of  oars  in  the  rowlocks  down- 
stream. On  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  sat  a  man,  mother- 
naked,  with  the  sun  gleaming  on  the  bare  limbs,  on  the 
broad  arms  folded  across  the  hairy  chest.  At  one  mo- 
ment bathed  in  sunlight,  the  next  in  shadow,  in  the  daz- 
zle of  light  and  darkness,  he  might  have  been  carved  in 
bronze,  were  it  not  for  the  ripple  of  muscle  under  the 
skin. 

"That'll  do,"  said  he.  The  next  moment  there  was 
the  creaming  foam  of  cleft  water,  the  gurgling  up-rush  of 
waves  against  the  lightened  boat.  In  its  wake  rippled 
a  line  of  white.  Now  with  breast-stroke,  now  side- 
stroke,  the  swimmer  made  for  the  sea,  his  head  shining 
in  the  water  like  a  seal's.  Then  he  turned  and  the  boat 
followed,  the  man  standing  up  to  paddle  with  one  oar, 
till  he  was  obliged  to  scull  against  the  ebb. 


54  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Nearing  the  yacht,  Uncle  Pip  put  hand  to  lips  and 
shouted : 

"Pendragon!    Ahoy!  ahoy!  ahoy!" 

The  echo  laughed  among  the  hills,  and  the  mate  leant 
over  the  bulwarks,  his  Newgate  fringe  shining  like  a 
nimbus. 

''The  skipper  a-board,  Mr.  Cole?"  shouted  Mr.  Haw- 
kins. 

"There's  the  skipper,"  grinned  Cole,  pointing  to  the 
swimmer,  while  a  blue-behinded  ape  chattered  in  the 
scuppers  and  then  clawed  its  way  up  the  mainmast,  its 
tail  lashing  behind  it. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hawkins,"  shouted  Knyvett,  ap- 
proaching the  companion-ladder  with  a  rapid  side-stroke. 
Then,  with  much  heaving,  Uncle  Pip  got  himself  aboard, 
accompanied  by  the  padding  of  bare  feet  and  the  surge 
of  water  as  the  swimmer  followed. 

A  nautical  bustle  like  this  had  a  classic  flavour  about 
it  to  Uncle  Pip,  for  had  not  his  idol,  Henry  Fielding, 
gone  on  a  voyage  to  Lisbon  and  painted  the  rough  and 
tumble  of  sea-faring  days?  On  Fielding  Mr.  Hawkins 
had  pastured  all  his  life,  so  that  from  him  he  could  quote 
long  passages  full  of  the  Virtues  in  big  letters  and  the 
masculine  frailties  in  small  ones.  It  was  even  now  to 
Uncle  Pip  a  point  of  some  literary  importance  to  belittle 
the  achievements  of  the  amorous  bookseller  as  compared 
with  the  blusterous,  derring-do  of  that  queer  epitome  of 
man's  lowest  weakness  and  most  divine  strength,  Henry 
Fielding. 

"I  want  you,"  said  he,  "to  come  over  to  Foxholt  for 
dinner.  We've  got  two  pair  of  ducks  killed  and  the 
girls  coming." 

"Chick,  chick,  chick,"  hissed  the  ape,  making  for  his 
bow-legs  as  he  waddled  across  the  deck,  swaying  like  a 
goose. 

"A  rare  lot  of  live  stock  you've  got  here,"  said  Mr. 
Hawkins. 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  55 

Two  huge  Angora  cats  sunned  themselves  on  the  fore 
hatch  and  a  marmoset  fraternised  with  a  goat. 

"This  here  vessel,"  said  the  mate,  "is  a  menagerie  of 
all  the  things  that  crawl  the  earth  and  swim  upon  the 
sea.  Here  we  be  a-rehearsing  for  the  garden  of  Eden. 
The  last  we  had  was  a  pair  of  land-crabs  till,  they  squat- 
ting upon  a  board,  the  cats  give  it  a  tilt  and  over  they 
went.  Neatest  thing  as  ever  I  see." 

The  great  panther-like  creatures  filled  the  air  with 
a  mighty  purring  as  they  leapt  upon  the  mate 's  shoulder 
and  crawled  along  his  outstretched  arm. 

Below  a  mighty  bustle  was  toward  as  the  black  steward 
cast  about  him  to  find  provender  for  the  vast  appetite  at 
that  moment  descending  the  companion  stairs. 

"Ah,  Mistah  Hawkins,  he  come,"  said  he  in  his  soft, 
mouthy  talk,  "de  York  ham,  de  rasheres,  de  raised  pie, 
de  rolls,  de  cream,  jam,  honey  .  .  .  lah,  lah,  lah." 
In  his  haste  he  fairly  capered  while  Mr.  Hawkins  sink- 
ing into  a  swivel-chair,  poised  himself  above  the  victuals, 
taking  an  inventory. 

"Caw-fee,"  ejaculated  the  darky,  and  presently  from 
the  caboose  came  a  mighty  stoking  and  then  the  rum- 
bling of  coal  followed  by  the  sputtering  of  water  on 
burning  metal.  Cornelius  was  one  of  the  order  of  cooks 
who  burn  down  a  house  to  fricassee  a  fowl  leg. 

Meanwhile,  napkin  under  chin,  Mr.  Hawkins,  not  wait- 
ing for  his  host,  laid  about  him  lustily. 

"I  say,"  shouted  he,  "look  alive,  Knyvett.  I've  got 
scores  of  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

He  rapped  with  the  handle  of  his  knife  to  attract  at- 
tention. Overhead  the  wind  was  beginning  to  hum 
through  the  spars. 

"Good,"  grunted  he,  swishing  down  a  pint  or  so  of 
hot  coffee,  the  darky  watching  benevolently.  "Never  go 
about  to  borrow  trouble,  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Hawkins  to 
him.  "Trouble's  the  one  thing  you  can't  prepare  for, 
for  ten  to  one  it  never  comes,  and  if  it  does,  it's  sure  to 


56  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

be  quite  different  from  what  you  expected  it  would  be." 

"And  what  called  forth  that  remark,"  asked  Mr. 
Knyvett,  entering  the  saloon,  his  hands  full  of  letters. 

"Something  my  wife  said  to  me  this  morning.  But 
that's  the  way  with  women,  always  worrying.  Too  many 
women  by  half  over  there,"  said  he,  jerking  his  thumb 
shorewards.  "Place  swarms  with  the  nervous  little 
cusses.  Can't  put  your  foot  down  for  'em  anywhere." 

Mr.  Knyvett  being  engaged  for  the  moment  in  turning 
over  the  mail,  the  mate  chipped  in  with  the  air  of  an 
expert  on  the  subject. 

"With  women,"  said  he,  "you  must  take  'em  as  you 
find  'em,  same  as  with  wind  and  tide — clap  on  all  sail 
when  they'm  fair  and  slip  along,  close-reefed,  when 
they'm  foul." 

"A  word  above  rubies,  Mr.  Cole,"  said  Uncle  Pip, 
reaching  for  the  butter.  "After  thirty  years  of  experi- 
ence with  my  first,  which  was  also  my  last,  I've  learnt 
no  more  than  that." 

"Sounds  like  a  public,  the  First  and  the  Last,"  said 
the  mate,  finding  himself  unexpectedly  brilliant. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Hawkins,  "what  I  want  to  know  is 
about  this  gold-hunting  business  of  yours.  Gold  by  the 
ton,  my  nieces  tell  me.  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in 
my  life.  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  going  with  you." 

4 '  Huh ! ' '  said  the  mate  from  the  depths  of  his  stomach. 

"Mr.  Cole  hasn't  that  faith  in  Bodinar  that  could  be 
wished,"  smiled  Knyvett. 

"Shifty-eyed,  ferrety-faced,"  agreed  the  mate.  "But 
that's  no  business  of  mine.  Say  you:  ' Sail  the  Pendra- 
gon  to  hell, '  I  'd  sail  it.  That 's  the  way  I  am. ' ' 

"A  buccaneer.  No  less,"  quoth  Mr.  Hawkins,  rejoic- 
ing. "But  this  Bodinar — now?" 

"I've  been  to  see  his  former  employers.  They  sub- 
stantiate his  story.  It  made,  I  find,  something  of  a  sen- 
sation, that  voyage.  There  was  a  kind  of  broadsheet  cir- 
culated hereabouts  of  the  cruise." 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  57 

Knyvett  tossed  across  the  table  a  sheet  of  print,  which 
Mr.  Hawkins  read,  holding  the  page  close  to  his  eyes  with 
his  glasses  pushed  up  over  his  forehead. 

"Hah!"  he  said.  "Good.  'On  one  occasion  some 
Patagonians  approached  them  in  a  fierce,  threatening  at- 
titude, clothed  with  skins  and  armed  with  bows  and  ar- 
rows ! '  Fine !  Fine ! ' ' 

' '  That, ' '  laughed  Knyvett,  ' '  was,  I  think,  one  of  those 
fancy  touches  that  are  characteristic  of  the  man. ' ' 

"But  the  treasure?" 

"Somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  latitude  51°  43' 
south  and  longitude  73°  59'  west — in  a  land-locked  cove. 
Alluvial  sand,  probably.  My  plan  is  to  take  the 
Pendragon  out  to  Punta  Arenas.  To  send  by  sailing 
vessel  from  Glasgow  camping  stores,  tents,  gold-washing 
apparatus  and  a  steam-tug  slung  on  deck.  To  pick  up 
the  tug  at  Sandy  Point  from  the  Pendragon  and  steam 
up  Smyth's  Channel." 

"That'll  mean  a  good  'thou.'  You'll  let  me  have  a 
share  in  the  venture,  Knyvett.  Stand  me  in  for  half 
of  the  costs  and  a  third  of  the  profits  that  go  to  the 
adventurers. ' ' 

"The  adventurers  are,  so  far,  Peter  Westlake  and 
myself. ' ' 

"And  Mr.  Cole?" 

"Mr.  Cole  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  wages 
for  his  part  of  the  work. ' ' 

"Hasn't  got  the  guts  for  it,  you  may  say,"  interposed 
the  gentleman  in  question. 

"Bodinar  gets  a  third  of  the  net  profits  and  what's 
left  after  prize  money  has  been  paid  to  Mr.  Cole  and 
the  crew  is  to  be  shared  between  the  prospectors." 

"Let's  see,  let's  see,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Pip,  spreading 
himself  over  the  table,  as  Knyvett  began  to  clear  a  space 
for  a  chart.  A  slight  refreshing  dew  burst  out  on  Mr. 
Hawkins'  temples,  for  the  blood  of  his  ancestors  ramped 
in  his  veins. 


58  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Hist!"  said  the  mate,  suddenly  laying  a  hand  on 
Mr.  Hawkins'  arm.  "There's  Bodinar.  And  what  the 
devil's  the  matter  with  him?" 

The  three  bent  down  over  the  table,  staring  through 
the  left  port-hole  across  the  river,  swelling  now  in  long, 
glassy  rolls. 

Bodinar 's  movements  were  certainly  peculiar.  He 
was  crouching,  huddled-up,  in  the  stern  of  a  rowboat, 
wrapped  in  a  heavy  cloak,  with  head  turning  constantly 
over  his  shoulder  as  though  pursued.  The  boat  seemed 
seaward  bound  till  he  leant  forward  and  said  something 
to  the  rower,  who  with  a  heavy  rush  of  surging  water 
brought  the  boat  round  to  the  stern  of  the  Pendragon 
and  so  into  the  shadow  where  the  saloon  watchers  could 
not  follow  him.  But  the  mate  was  at  the  right  port-hole 
in  a  second.  And  when  the  curtain  came  sagging 
against  the  closed  glass  from  the  open  port-hole  on  the 
other  side,  with  one  hand  he  held  it  quiet,  while  he  lis- 
tened to  the  sound  of  a  boat  grazing  against  the  yacht 
side  and  to  the  quick  licking  of  a  rope  against  the  bul- 
warks. Mr.  Bodinar  was  coming  aboard  in  a  hurry. 

"Look  out,  sir,"  said  the  mate,  "t'other  side.  Is  he 
followed?" 

But  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  except  a  steamer 
being  towed  from  its  moorings  by  a  tug. 

"Queer  go,"  said  the  mate. 

The  trampling  overhead  was  followed  by  the  dragging 
of  a  sack. 

' '  Mr.  Bodinar 's  brought  his  furniture, ' '  said  Mr.  Cole. 
1 '  That  was  a  badly  frightened  man,  sir  ?  " 

At  the  top  of  the  companion,  when  Knyvett  reached 
it  with  his  mate,  stood  Bodinar.  In  the  daylight  the 
sweat-drops  gleamed  on  his  face.  Getting  him  down  to 
the  saloon  they  left  him  there  with  Mr.  Hawkins. 

"What  d'you  make  of  it?"  asked  Knyvett  of  his  mate, 
as  they  watched  the  boat  that  had  brought  Bodinar  zig- 
zagging among  the  vessels. 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  59 

"Cutting  off  his  tracks,  so  that  whatever 's  behind 
shan't  know  which  boat  he's  on,"  said  Mr.  Cole. 
' '  Somebody  wants  Mr.  B.  rather  pressing,  I  should  say. ' ' 

' '  So  should  I, ' '  answered  Knyvett.  ' '  Who  is  it,  d  'you 
think?" 

"Might  be  a  ghost,  might  be  a  'tec  and  might  be  just 
a  bad  conscience.  But  it  looks  like  a  pier-head  jump 
with  the  police  behind." 

Not  a  sail,  not  an  oar  nor  the  shadow  of  one  was  to 
be  seen  on  the  river. 

' '  To-morrow  I  '11  take  him  through  the  town.  And  do 
you  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  him  to-day,"  said  Captain 
Knyvett. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  responded  the  mate,  all  agog  for  a 
bit  of  detective  work. 

It  was  rather  a  surprise  to  Knyvett  to  find  how  thor- 
oughly he  was  being  committed  by  other  people's  zeal 
to  a  wild-goose  chase  after  these  sands  of  gold.  Yet  in 
it  he  acquiesced,  recognising  clearly  that  it  would  pro- 
vide a  healthy  bit  of  rough  experience  for  Peter  West- 
lake,  as  well  as  a  means  of  escape  for  himself  from  the 
cloud  of  worry  that  hung  over  Craneham.  For  one 
thing  only  had  terrors  for  Knyvett — a  fear  of  being  en- 
gulfed by  the  octopus  of  human  complication.  The  mere 
thought  of  it  would  often  set  him  knocking  head  against 
the  wall  of  circumstance.  With  Sara  in  the  clutches  of 
the  serpents,  he  would  venture  a  dashing  cut  at  the  clasp- 
ing coils,  but  would  never  risk  the  hungry  grip  of  them 
for  himself.  Hence  he  seldom  stayed  long  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Heref ords,  but  would  appear,  stay  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  vanish  with  the  same  flip  of  decision  with  which 
he  turned  on  his  heel  up  a  new  road.  For  Knyvett 
always  left  a  railway  station  without  a  parting  glance 
at  a  friend. 

Once  at  Foxholt  with  Uncle  Pip  he  plunged  into  a 
past  age.  There,  noon  was  the  dining-hour  and,  the 
board  cleared,  one  paced  the  terrace  in  spacious  leisure, 


60  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

with  the  river  winding  through  the  champaign  below 
like  a  streak  of  pewter.  Beyond  the  serenity  of  wide 
distances  lay  the  streak  of  the  channel,  a  bar  of  shifting 
opal. 

It  was  a  clear  day  of  early  spring  when  the  hills  on 
the  horizon  are  almost  as  blue  as  the  edges  of  the  cloud 
sweeps  that  merge  in  unveiled  azure.  The  tiny  valleys 
were  filled  with  leafless  trees  or  patched  with  the  purple 
of  plough-land  and  the  grey-green  of  grass.  Over  all 
poured  the  clear  light,  making  the  hedges  almost  indigo 
and  the  woodlands  of  a  clouded,  satiny  sheen  that  bil- 
lowed round  the  black  tracery  of  straggling  pines  and 
cedars.  A  Japanese  painter  would  have  found  himself 
at  home  with  the  clear  light,  the  black  shadows,  the  for- 
mal contours  of  trees  and  breast-like  hills  patched  to 
the  semblance  of  a  cottage  counterpane. 

The  house  was  a  lofty  grey  building  with  lattice-paned 
Elizabethan  windows  and  wide  gables  where  the  yellow 
stonecrop  grew.  In  the  bow  of  the  great  mullioned  win- 
dow they  sat  at  table,  with  the  sunshine  playing  hide 
and  seek  on  water  bottles  and  wine  jugs,  while  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins prattled  to  the  tune  of  veni,  vidi,  vici,  as  she  carved 
the  ducks,  tenderly  laying  portions  of  them  on  each 
plate  in  embalmment  of  sage  and  onions. 

Mellow  was  she  as  October  sunlight,  sweet-fleshed  as 
quarrender  or  pippin,  and  her  delight  in  the  fact  that 
they  could  produce  peas  in  winter  was  an  intellectual 
triumph,  for  the  bottling  of  them  had  been  attended 
with  so  many  fears. 

She  was  an  ample  woman,  bulging  out  in  unexpected 
directions,  like  a  swelling  Spanish  galleon,  marvellous 
beamy  in  the  build,  with  bright  brown  eyes,  a  yellowish 
skin,  a  hairy  mole  on  her  left  cheek,  and  a  dimple,  as 
fascinating  as  that  of  a  four-year-old,  on  her  right.  She 
had  but  one  trouble  in  the  world,  now  that  Pip  had  got 
over  his  ' '  flightiness, "  and  that  was  the  inability  of  her 
stomach  to  keep  pace  with  her  palate. 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  61 

The  talk  turning  on  Bodinar,  she  kept  an  inscrutable 
smile  while  the  story  of  the  morning  was  told. 

"There's  one  thing  none  of  you  ever  thought  of," 
said  she  at  last. 

Sara  leant  forward,  one  arm  on  the  polished  mahog- 
any, for  they  were  come  to  the  dessert  stage  by  now. 

' '  I  know, ' '  she  said,  her  lips  pouting  delicately  towards 
the  grape  she  held  up  to  them.  Quite  regal  she  looked  in 
the  Charles  II  chair  with  a  carved  back  and  arms  that 
held  her.  "I  know  what  Aunt  Hatty  means.  It  might 
be—" 

She  laughed,  holding  out  her  hands  like  a  sibyl  as 
they  bent  towards  her — Billy,  Uncle  Pip  and  Anne. 

"It  wasn't  a  ghost,  nor  a  man  in  blue  that  was  after 
him,  I  believe.  But  it  might  have  been — a  woman. ' ' 

"That's  so,"  nodded  Mrs.  Hawkins.  "And  when 
you've  got  out  of  his  wife  all  she  knows,  then  perhaps 
you'll  be  a  bit  wiser  than  you  are  now." 

"His  wife!"  exclaimed  Knyvett.  "Why  I  forgot  to 
find  out  about  that.  And  after  all,  he  may  not  have 
one." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  "a  sailorman  of 
fifty  and  no  wife!  Don't  tell  me." 

"More  likely  fifty  of  'em,"  shouted  Uncle  Pip. 
"Nay,  nay,"  continued  he  to  Sara,  "don't  shake  your 
dear  little  hands  at  me." 

"Have  I  dear  little  hands — Billy?"  asked  Sara,  turn- 
ing from  Uncle  Pip 's  amorousness  to  Billy 's  solemn  face. 
He  was  indeed  un  homme  serieux,  as  Elizabeth  would 
have  said.  And  watching  Sara's  coquetry,  the  pretty 
airs  that  a  woman  only  shows  when  she  is  happy  and 
well-liked,  Captain  Knyvett  wondered  at  the  sad-faced 
constraint  of  her  demeanour  in  the  stagnant  air  of  her 
own  home.  This  bright-eyed,  laughing  woman  scarcely 
seemed  the  same  creature  as  the  mistress  of  Craneham. 

After  dinner  they  gathered  round  the  log  fire,  Billy 
and  Sara  settling  to  chess  in  the  corner  with  beside  them 


62  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

the  blue  Devon  sheep-dog  sighing  blissfully  in  the  heat. 
Anne  followed  Mrs.  Hawkins  to  the  window-seat,  out  of 
ear-shot  of  the  players. 

"Sara's  happy  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"As  she  would  be  if — "  answered  Anne. 

"Don't  say  it,  my  dear,"  protested  Mrs.  Hawkins, 
"I've  a  superstition  about  saying  things.  To  think  a 
thing  is  bad  enough,  but  you  bring  it  much  nearer  if 
you  say  it.  You're  all  very  silly  about  Sara.  Every- 
body sits  glumping  and  glooming  about  that  marriage 
and  then  you're  all  surprised  that  Sara  isn't  happy! 
Fool  talk,  I  call  it." 

"  I  've  been  staying  with  his  mother  on  my  way  down, ' ' 
said  Anne,  nodding  at  Mr.  Knyvett's  back. 

"Ah,  and  what's  she  like?" 

"Everything  in  turn.  A  fine  lady  with  a  heart  as 
simple  as  a  tramp  woman's.  She  told  me  how  it  was 
that  he  lost  Sara.  You  remember?  "When  everyone 
thought  it  was  going  to  happen.  He  was  the  active  part- 
ner in  an  engineering  business  and  had  work  all  over  the 
world  then  from  silver  mines  in  Peru  to  main  drains  in 
Kimberley.  Pulling  strings  everywhere,  he  was.  To 
use  her  words:  the  world  was  his  back  garden.  In  one 
hand  he  held — Power.  He  used  to  talk  to  her  some- 
times how  he  could  make  and  mar  men.  He  was  lost 
in  it.  He  loved  it." 

Mrs.  Hawkins  dropped  her  wool  work — Berlin  wool 
slippers  in  a  design  of  roses  for  Uncle  Pip.  In  her  well- 
padded  life  she  was  not  used  to  looking  into  burning 
cauldrons  and  Anne's  manner  was  scorching. 

"He  used  to  talk,"  she  continued,  "like  the  man  in 
'John  Gabriel  Borkman'  of  the  spirits  of  the  mine  and 
of  the  earth  that  he  let  out." 

"Don't,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  kicking  her  in  the  way 
in  which  she  roused  the  dog  when  he  snored  in  his  sleep. 

"That  was  in  one  hand — Power,"  said  Anne.  "In 
the  other  was  Sara.  He  didn't  know  then  which  he 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  63 

valued  most.  And  anyway,  Sara  could  wait,  for  she 
was  always  there,  you  see." 

Knyvett  laughed  at  the  moment,  holding  up  a  pawn 
between  finger  and  thumb.  It  sounded  grisly  to  Aunt 
Hatty,  as  she  drew  her  shawl  nearer  to  her  ears. 

"Then  father  married  Sara  to  Archer.  And  Billy 
found,  when  he'd  lost  her,  that  after  all  the  thing 
he  could  never  have  now  was  the  thing  he  really 
wanted." 

"That's  a  man  all  over,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"And  that  taught  him  another  thing;  that  Sara  had 
never  been  his  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world.  Not  a 
bit  of  her  mind,  of  her  soul,  of  what  to  Billy  is  really 
Sara,  had  ever  been  his.  He  had  never  even  understood 
her,  for  if  he  had,  he  would  have  known  she  was  going 
to  marry  Archer.  It  came  as  a  thunderbolt  because  she 
had  always  been  a  stranger  to  him." 

"Glad  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  "that  I  hadn't  got 
to  marry  my  Pip  when  all  this  stuff  about  'understand- 
ing' and  'being  strangers'  was  about.  The  constitution 
won't  stand  it.  That's  why  Sara  and  Billy  both  look 
so  thin." 

' '  It  broke  him  anyway, ' '  said  Anne.  ' '  He  kicked  over 
everything.  Gave  up  his  work  and  went  to  live  on  his 
yacht." 

"Sulks!"  commented  Mrs.  Hawkins.  She  was  a 
woman  whose  simple  philosophy  was — to  keep  smiling. 
Of  Sara  and  of  Billy  she  was  much  in  awe,  for  Sara  was 
a  little  de  haut  en  bas,  and  Mr.  Knyvett  had  a  certain 
afflatus  of  wealth  and  position.  Of  Anne  and  Peter 
Westlake,  being  humble  folk  in  stature  and  in  manner, 
she  felt  no  awe. 

"Don't  you  make  a  mess  of  things,  either,  with  Pe- 
ter." 

"Oh!  Flibbertigibbet!"  said  Anne.  "Billy  tells  me 
he's  giving  up  his  missioning  here,  to  escape  my  charms. 
Fun,  isn't  it?" 


64 

"Anne  Hereford,  you're  turning  out  a  heartless  girl. 
I  shall  wash  my  hands  of  you." 

"No,  you  won't,  because  if  you're  good,  I'll  tell  you 
a  secret.  And  you  know  that  an  eclair  and  a  secret  are 
two  things  you  can  never  resist." 

"Well?"  asked  Mrs.  Hawkins,  smiling  till  she  flushed 
in  expectation. 

"I  like  Peter — in  a  way,  now  that  he  isn't  so  'pi.' 
But  he's  stupid,  of  the  last  century,  because  he's  going 
off  to  try  and  sweep  up  gold-dust  to  keep  ME — ME— 
ME;  as  if  I  was  going  to  be  a  kept  woman.  I'm 
going  to  pay  my  own  way,  ring  or  no  ring.  Am  I, 
Mistress  Hawkins,  born  to  be  a  toy  to  any  man?  And 
just  fancy  Peter,  dear  old  pious  Peter,  with  a  woman 
toy!" 

' '  How  dare  you  use  such  language  ?  And  as  for  stu- 
pid, well,  men  are  that.  I've  never  had  but  one  child 
and  that's  my  old  man,  Pip,  and  many's  the  time  he's 
put  his  head  on  my  shoulder  and  told  me  how  wicked 
he's  been.  For  women  can  find  the  way  in  the  dark, 
by  the  feel  of  the  road  in  front  of  them,  when  they 
love.  But  a  man  always  wants  a  lanthorn  in  front  of 
him." 

"When  they  love,  yes.  But  Sara's  never  known  what 
that  is,"  said  Anne  sadly. 

"How  can  you  talk  so  wicked,  with  those  two  sitting 
right  in  front  of  your  very  eyes,  Anne  Hereford?" 

She  nodded  towards  the  chess  players,  who  were 
pursuing  a  curious  game  in  which  Billy  read  Sara's 
thoughts,  nimbly  running  just  ahead  of  her  every  time. 

These  two  always  talked  better  when  there  was  a  third 
person  present.  For  then  the  unspoken  things  got  more 
chance  of  being  said.  At  other  times  their  pedestrian 
chatter  would  stump  prosaically  along  the  highway  of 
common  talk  the  while  their  real  thoughts  hovered  over- 
head, butterflies  whose  white  wings  flashed  but  seldom. 
Then  every  sentence  spoken  had  its  shadow  unexpressed. 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  65 

They  would  spar,  and  sight  an  idyll;  jibe,  and  look 
down  a  glade  of  the  pays  du  tendre. 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  slowly,  "but — Sara  doesn't  know. 
She  never  will  know,  I  think,  till  she  misses  it,  what 
Billy  feels  for  her.  She  has  a  deal  of  the  old  man  in 
her,  after  all.  She'll  take  and  never  return;  be  waited 
on  and  never  give  it  a  thought.  That's  Sara — a  Basil 
plant,  like  dad,  for  all  her  sweetness.  And  Billy  is  the 
man  she  feeds  on.  But  she  doesn  't  know  it,  nor  does  he. ' ' 

"You're  as  cheerful  as  a  churchyard,"  grumbled  Mrs. 
Hawkins,  secretly  nodding  agreement.  Of  her  two 
nieces,  Sara  was  not  the  one  she  loved. 

The  matter  was  not  so  simple  as  Anne  supposed,  for, 
apart  from  Sara  altogether,  it  was  characteristic  of  Billy 
to  start  off  on  new  tacks  at  a  moment's  notice.  Un- 
bound by  any  fetters,  human  or  otherwise,  he  refused  to 
travel  in  a  straight  line  for  long.  In  this  he  was  by 
no  means  unique  for,  granted  a  sufficiency  of  means,  few 
versatile  persons  would  consent  to  remain  in  one  pro- 
fession. It  is  poverty  of  brains,  no  less  than  poverty 
of  purse,  that  keeps  a  man  in  a  rut.  Scientific  in  habit 
of  thought,  Knyvett  was  bound  for  a  time  to  apply  him- 
self to  earth-tunnelling  or  water-conducting,  and  to 
work  with  fiery  zeal.  But  one  morning  he  awoke  to  find 
virtue  gone  out  of  him;  then  for  an  interval  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  the  toil  of  some  primitive  life,  prefer- 
ably the  perpetually  changing  horizons  of  the  sea. 
After  that  might  come,  perhaps,  another  dive  into  civi- 
lised pursuits,  with  the  balance  oscillating  to  politics. 

First  and  last  this  was  no  man  to  be  bound  by  chains. 
Tie  him  down  to  restrictions,  domestic  or  otherwise, 
and  he  would  make  the  welkin  echo  with  shouts  of  revolt, 
for  here  we  have  a  pig  that  could  never  be  ringed. 
Never,  in  fact,  had  he  wanted  Sara  so  much  as  now — 
when  she  was  out  of  reach,  for  it  was  the  absence  of  all 
claim  that  kept  him  bound  to  her.  And  scientific  in  his 
love-making,  her  case  had  a  fascination  for  him  apart 


66  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

from  romance ;  it  might  become  an  interesting  experiment 
in  sociology,  now  that  the  very  elements  of  social  life  are 
being  flung  into  the  crucible  of  change.  Through  Sara 
he  saw  a  chance  of  giving  one  feature  of  the  bad  old 
days  a  shove  into  the  limbo  kept  for  historic  customs. 

But  all  this  was  beyond  the  simple  thought  of  Anne, 
who  was  neither  psychologist  nor  cynic. 

"Is  it  going  to  be  all  right  for  Peter?"  asked  Mr. 
Knyvett  suddenly  over  the  chess  play. 

"I  think  so,"  answered  Sara;  "I  hope  so.  He's  just 
the  sort  for  her.  She  wouldn't  appreciate  a  beauty  or 
a  sage,  but  she'll  just  love  furbishing  up  a  lame  dog 
all  her  days.  For  Anne  is  an  unselfish  egoist.  She 
knows  herself  to  be  a  charming  person  who  always  car- 
ries her  own  sunshine  with  her.  And  through  that  veil 
she  feels  that  nothing  can  get  at  her  to  hurt. ' ' 

Knyvett  thought  it  none  too  kindly  an  analysis  of  a 
sister,  but  Sara  loved  her  friends  wisely,  so  that  no  dis- 
illusion ever  awaited  her. 

"Anne  is  the  daintiest  creature  imaginable,"  contin- 
ued she,  "but  all  the  same  she  really  enjoyed  the  fleas 
that  the  Irish  servant  used  to  catch  in  her  bed  when 
she  was  working  in  the  Liverpool  slums.  For  they  gave 
her  such  a  priceless  opportunity  of  rising  above  untoward 
circumstances. ' ' 

' '  So  poor  old  Peter  is  to  go  down  in  the  same  list  with 
the  fleas!" 

' '  He 's  just  the  man  for  her,  for  she  could  never  stand 
having  to  crick  her  neck  with  looking  up  to  her  mate. 
Do  you  remember  how  in  the  old  days  when  dad's  flat 
was  a  centre  for  artists  and  men — " 

He  smiled  at  her  classification. 

"How  she  never  could  abide  a  bashaw?  Only  you 
must  take  him  away  while  I  coach  her  up  in  the  idea 
that  it's  her  bounden  duty  to  prove  to  the  world  that 
the  married  woman  doctor  is  a  success.  Then  it'll  be 
all  right." 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  67 

Finally  came  Uncle  Pip  and  stirred  them  up  from 
their  drowsy  talk,  for  there  was  one  memory,  the  glory 
of  Foxholt,  which  he  never  spared  anybody,  a  memory 
connected  with  the  barn  where  a  strolling  player  had 
once  performed,  with  another  Philip  Hawkins,  a  blind 
organist  and  the  great  uncle  of  the  present  bearer  of 
that  name,  playing  Beethoven  between  the  acts — to  gain 
a  paying  audience  for  the  starving  troupe. 

And  not  long  afterwards,  going  down  to  play  Shy- 
lock  at  Drury  Lane  the  limping  fiddler  whom  old  Haw- 
kins had  befriended  remarked  to  his  wife:  "It's  suc- 
cess— or  death  for  me  to-night."  And  it  was  success, 
since  the  strolling  player  had  been  Edmund  Kean.  No 
wonder  that  the  barn  which  had  been  so  honoured  was 
to  Uncle  Hawkins  a  shrine  to  which  he  led  all  pilgrims 
who  would  be  likely  to  appreciate  the  honour. 

They  all  stood  in  the  doorway  gazing  into  the  mellow 
darkness  where  the  farm  carts  stood  in  rows  on  the  floor 
of  trodden  earth  in  which  the  hens  had  made  rough 
circles  in  the  dust.  The  air  was  full  of  a  smell  of  hay 
and  roots  and  high  up  in  the  walls  two  deep  square 
window  slits  let  in  clear  glimpses  of  the  sky.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  yard  the  setting  sun  shone  behind  a  clump 
of  trees,  outlining  the  wintry  nakedness  of  their  deli- 
cate arms  against  the  glow.  It  was  very  still;  not  a 
twig  moved,  not  a  feathery  head  of  dried  stonecrop 
shivered  on  any  roof. 

Then  from  the  darkened  end  of  the  barn  Anne  sang: 

"Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee, 
Doth  suck  his  sweet; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 
Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast, 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast; 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest, 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye?" 


68  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

The  motes  in  the  candle  rays  danced;  slowly  the  red 
of  the  sky  faded ;  the  green  grew  colder  till  it  was  steel- 
blue.  Sara's  face  was  but  a  white  shadow  and  every 
moment  to  Knyvett  she  seemed  to  be  growing  further 
away  from  him.  For  he  was  trying  to  follow  her 
thoughts,  to  leap  across  the  barrier  that  separates  man 
from  woman.  Her  face  was  unutterably  sad.  Was  it 
from  regret?  What  was  it  like,  to  live  in  that  mind  of 
hers?  He  willed  her  to  look  at  him,  for  he  wanted  to 
tear  down  the  bar  between  them,  the  gossamer  web  of 
iron  that  two  temperaments  build. 

Then  as  her  eyes  met  his  in  a  long  gaze,  he  swore  that 
never  should  there  fall  over  her,  through  him,  the  faint- 
est shadow  of  any  baseness.  He  would  not  even  suffer 
the  smallness  of  covetous  pain  to  invade  his  lightest 
thought  of  her.  She  seemed  to  be  asking,  not  what  he 
longed  to  give,  the  hourly  care  that  should  read  the 
flicker  of  an  eyelid  and  leap  to  her  thought  like  the 
shadow  that  follows  substance,  but  that  courage,  that 
high  contempt  of  circumstance  that  only  those  can  give 
who  wear  the  wings  of  great  desire. 

Spoilt  was  she  by  another  man's  owning? 

At  the  very  word  he  jibbed,  for  it  was  not  "owning" 
that  he  craved.  Had  he  not,  even  now,  the  better  thing  ? 
For  he  could  follow  her,  it  seemed,  into  the  spiritual 
world  that  music  opens;  he  could  speak  with  her,  bodi- 
less, in  a  voice  that  needed  no  sound. 

Then  she  looked  away  and  sighed,  while  Knyvett 
smiled,  almost  pitying  the  pair  that  would  never  know 
that  other  desire  which  beats  against  the  walls  of  sense, 
that  from  the  pain  of  a  wound  learns  the  ecstasy  of 
deathlessness. 

But  he  was  alone  all  the  time,  since  Sara  had  merely 
been  considering  her  own  fingers,  wondering,  in  fact, 
why  they  were  so  powerless  to  grasp  what  she  wanted. 
It  was  the  strolling  player  who  had  suggested  the 
thought,  for  he  had  known  how  to  grip  success,  to  lay 


AN  ESSAY  IN  HEROICS  69 

hands  on  power,  to  escape  from  poverty  and  squalor. 
Every  fibre  of  his  nature  had  struggled  for  it. 

As  hers  did  not,  for  deep  below  all  desire  of  escape, 
she  knew  that  her  self-pride  kept  her  in  her  place.  She 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  she  had  ever  failed  in  any 
demand  made  on  her;  her  querulous  father,  her  neg- 
lectful husband,  were  powerless  to  alter  her  own  deter- 
mined uprightness. 

But  Captain  Billy?  For  after  all  his  eyes  had  drawn 
hers.  Only,  compelled  by  his  gaze,  she  saw  how  he  could 
be  made  to  serve  her.  Since  his  money,  his  influence, 
his  obedience,  were  hers  for  the  asking;  she  had  only 
to  lift  a  finger. 

That  was  how  it  looked  to  Sara.  For  Billy  Knyvett 
had  only  been  smoking  an  enchanted  cigarette. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  SIBYL  OP  THE  SLUMS :  CONTAINING  THE  LEGEND  OF  A  TOBY 
JAR  AND  A  DIVINING  CRYSTAL 

AT  Dartmouth  quay  that  night  Mr.  Knyvett  found 
the  yacht's  dinghy  moored  at  the  landing-slip,  the 
ship's  boy  in  attendance.  From  within  the  bar  of  the 
"Valiant  Sailor"  came  the  hum  of  voices. 

' '  What 's  the  meaning  of  this,  Bennett  ? ' '  asked  Billy. 

"Mr.  Cole's  in  there  with  Mr.  Bodinar;  meller  he  is, 
too,  and  talking  fine,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Go  in  and  say  quietly,  without  attracting  attention, 
that  Mr.  Cole  is  wanted  outside." 

In  went  the  boy  and  presently  out  came  Cole,  "up 
the  pole,"  but  not  excessively  so. 

"We've  got  Bodinar  in  there,"  remarked  he  trium- 
phantly, "and  we'd  the  devil's  own  time  to  do  it,  I  can 
tell  you." 

"Why?"  demanded  Knyvett  curtly.  "I  never  heard 
there  was  usually  much  difficulty  in  getting  a  sailor  into 
a  public  house." 

"There  was  with  him,  sir.  I'll  tell  'ee  how  'twas. 
First,  this  morning  I  talked  over  the  ship  a  bit  with 
'en.  Told  'en  'twas  a  place  where  the  steward  aired 
your  nightshirt  and  that.  Then,  when  he  'd  liquored  up, 
said  I:  'There's  a  pretty  brew  at  the  "Valiant  Sailor." 
Let's  ashore  and  try  it.  It's  my  leave.' 

"  'No,'  says  he,  'not  me.  I  don't  go  ashore  till  'tis 
dark  and  the  last  train 's  left  for  Brixham. ' 

' '  '  Got  a  friend  on  her  then  ? '  asked  I. 

"  'Hope  so,'  says  he.  And  that's  all  he  would  say. 

70 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  71 

But  I  got  'en  here  at  last.  And  that  Hicks  he  wanted 
to  go  is  no  cop.  A  drunken,  lazy  good-for-nort.  That's 
what  they  all  say.  Ain't  no  class  at  all.  But  Bodinar 
swears  he  won't  go  without  'en.  His  right  hand  man 
he  is,  says  B.  It's  my  opinion  he  and  Hicks  have  put 
their  heads  together  to  get  us  out  there  and  then  do  for 
us,  bringing  the  gold  home  for  then-selves. " 

' '  Cole, ' '  said  Mr.  Kny vett,  ' '  you  've  been  going  in  for 
reading  that's  far  too  lurid.  Lead  the  way  in  and  let's 
have  a  look  at  Bodinar." 

The  air  of  the  sanded  bar  parlour  was  clammy  and 
wondrous  beery,  but  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  great 
tree-root  burning  in  the  grate,  quite  bearable.  The  ta- 
bles and  chairs  showed  the  woody  fibres  of  the  gram  of 
their  wood  as  a  post-impressionist  study  shows  the  lines 
of  a  face.  Mr.  Bodinar  was  shouting  to  the  landlord 
who,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  broadcloth  trousers,  exuded 
sleek  moisture  from  every  pore,  and  creaks  from  every 
inch  of  his  brightly  polished  shoes.  His  hair  was  plas- 
tered with  grease  and  the  waistcoat  button  in  the  small 
of  his  back  had  a  rakish  air. 

11  Women!"  cried  Bodinar.  "I've  knowed  women  for 
forty  year  and  more.  But  never  did  I  see  such  women 
as  we've  got  now.  Why,  here's  women  tackling  bur- 
glars single-handed  and  standing  'pon  deck  with  the  ship 
going  down  under  'em,  and  never  so  much  as  a  scritch. 
It's  against  all  nature,  for  'tis  the  make  of  the  women 
to  fear  and  the  make  of  the  men  to  comfort  'em.  But, 
when  a  woman  don't  want  comforting,  what's  a  man 
to  do?" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  bellow,  but  he  was  too  overcome 
by  his  grievances  to  stop  for  any  newcomers.  His  nose 
was  the  colour  of  copper  and  the  firelight  turned  his 
matted  hair  to  the  hue  of  lichen  as  he  leant  over  the 
table. 

"You'll  get  the  ins  and  outs  of  it  to-night,  sir,"  said 
Cole  in  a  low  voice. 


72  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"By  Jove,  he's  a  tarry  breeks,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Knyvett. 

Bodinar  was  by  this  time  in  that  state  when  a  man 
pays  no  heed  to  anything  said  below  a  certain  level  of 
voice. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  well  up  in  the  subject," 
said  Knyvett,  nodding  to  the  landlord  to  bring  spirits 
and  glasses. 

"Women!  I  know  'em  better 'n  I  know  my  own  face. 
I  like  'em  clinging  and  tender  myself,"  said  he,  giving 
a  hitch  to  his  garments,  "always  did.  And  I  suppose 
that's  why  I  got  married  to  a  strammocking,  upstanding 
woman  that  didn't  know  what  fear  was.  No,  nor  you 
couldn't  teach  it  to  her,  neither,  though  I  tried  most 
ways. ' ' 

"So,"  thought  Knyvett,  "Sara  was  right.  "It's  an 
affair  of  cherchez  la  femme  after  all." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  married  her  then,"  said  he. 

"Don't  you?"  snorted  he.  "Why,  that's  the  way 
with  the  women  down  here.  As  maids,  they're  ripe  and 
melting;  tender  little  doves  that'll  barely  coo  when 
you  stroke  'em.  That's  Devon  maids.  But  Devon 
wives !  Good  Lor' !  Do  'ee  know  why  two-thirds  of  the 
able-seamen  in  the  English  navy  be  Devon  men?"  he 
exclaimed,  turning  fiercely  on  Knyvett. 

"No,  but  I  know  it's  a  point  much  debated  by  naval 
experts. ' ' 

"Experts  here,  experts  there!  'Tis  to  get  away  from 
the  Devon  women  that  so  many  Devon  men  take  to  sea. 
'Tis  the  women  that  keep  up  the  supply  of  men  for 
King  George's  ships.  They  may  tell  up  old  trade  about 
the  call  of  the  sea,  but  'tis  the  call  of  the  Devon  women 
as  they  lads  cannot  bear  morning,  noon  and  night.  For 
proper  terrors  they  be,  when  you  get  to  know  them. 
The  bos'un's  whistle's  naught  to  'em.  And  upon  a 
man-o'-war  you  be  as  free  of  'em  as  you  can  be  any- 
where in  this  earth. ' ' 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  73 

"But  you're  not  a  navy  man?" 

"Not  me !  I  knowed  a  trick  worth  two  of  that.  First 
'long  I  worked  on  a  coaster  that  got  wrecked  off  Ushant. 
All  hands  given  out  for  lost.  I  wasn't,  though,  for  I 
come  ashore  all  right.  But  I  didn't  tell  up  any  old  yarns 
about  sole  survivor.  I  just  took  my  hook  and  went  off 
and  knocked  about  a  bit.  Lost,  dead,  drownded — and 
Bessie  a  widow.  You  twig?  I  thought  I'd  take  a  holi- 
day for  a  bit. ' ' 

He  winked  portentously. 

"But,"  he  resumed,  "I  didn't  go  off  like  that  till  I'd 
tried  to  break  Bessie's  spirit  every  way  I  could  think 
of.  And,  my  word,  what  a  spirit  there  was  to  her,  too. ' ' 

He  spat,  joyously  exact. 

"I  can  mind  it  all,  same  as  if  'twas  yesterday.  Us 
hadn't  been  married  a  year  when  there  was  a  crane 
working  just  alongside  the  quay,  clearing  out  a  ship's 
hold.  Somehow  'twas  out  of  order,  and  in  another 
minute  would  ha'  let  down  a  ton  of  concrete  upon  the 
men  below.  Bessie  noted  it,  and  out  and  thrust  in  her 
arm  instead  of  the  bar  that  was  missing.  Snap  went 
the  arm,  but  it  saved  the  men's  lives.  And  her  never 
said  a  word  when  they  set  it,  only  went  a  bit  white-like 
about  the  gills,  and  called  me  a  fule  for  looking  at  her  so 
sheep-like. 

"And  that  was  the  same  woman  that  used  to  give  a 
bit  of  a  shy  laugh  to  show  where  her  was,  when  her 
waited  for  me  down  street-end  back  along  in  the  court- 
ing days. 

"For  you  can  tell  what  the  cider '11  be  from  the  apples 
you  use,  and  what  the  beer '11  be  from  the  hops,  but  you 
can't  tell  the  woman  by  the  maid." 

"Did  her  ever  knuckle  under?"  enquired  the  mate. 

"Not  her.  Being  short-handed  one  day,  I  took  her 
out  to  help  with  the  boat.  I  did  it  purposely,  for  I  saw 
with  the  tail  of  my  eye,  'twas  blowing  up  for  a  thunder- 
storm. Ever  seen  a  thunderstorm  at  sea  from  an  open 


74  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

boat?"  he  enquired,  turning  towards  the  innkeeper,  in- 
stinctively knowing  him  to  be  no  seaman. 

"Never,"  said  he. 

"Then  you  don't  know  what  'tis  to  look  in  the  face 
of  Fear,"  said  he,  his  voice  changing  to  the  long 
cadence  with  which  sailors  speak  of  the  awe  of  the  sea. 

"It  gathered  in  round  us  darker  and  darker  and  far 
off,  pretty  nigh  from  t'other  side  of  the  world,  there 
come  a  low  roaring.  But  I  wouldn't  put  back,  for  I'd 
sworn  I'd  see  her  shiver,  make  her  turn  to  me  for  com- 
fort. 

' '  Then  a  little  wind  stirred  across  the  sea.  I  can  feel 
the  puff  of  it  now  in  my  face.  Her  was  steering  when 
it  come.  I  seed  her  head  bend  down  all  still  and  quiet, 
and  then  against  the  black  sky  in  a  roar  like  hell-mouth 
opening,  the  jag,  jag,  jag  of  the  lightning. 

"  'Bessie,'  said  I — 'Bessie,  are  you  there?'  when  the 
roar  drew  off  for  a  minute  and  I  could  hear  the  suck 
of  the  water  against  the  gunwales,  afore  the  rain  come 
down. 

"  'Yes,  I  be,'  says  she,  'but  no  thanks  to  the  fule 
that  brought  me  out,  when  a  blind  puppy  could  have 
smelt  a  storm.  But  you'm  not  fit  to  be  in  charge  of  a 
cat,  leave  alone  a  boat.' 

"After  that  I  give  it  up.  I'd  seen  strong  men  cower 
in  bottom  of  boat  afore  a  storm  of  lightning  at  sea. 
And  not  a  mite  of  feeling  did  her  show,  but  temper. 
But,  all  the  same,  when  us  moored  up  safe  along  quay- 
side at  last,  I  just  heard  her  give  a  little  sigh,  sort  of 
half  a  sob  like.  I  often  thought  of  that  bit  of  a  sigh 
while  I  stayed  away  in  Ameriky. ' ' 

' '  So  you  did  come  back  to  her  ? ' '  asked  Knyvett. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  he  shamefacedly.  "You  see,  her 
fried  tetties  capital,  and  her'd  a  little  bit  of  money, 
too.  And  Ameriky 's  all  very  well  in  its  way,  but  some- 
how they'm  more  homely,  the  old  scolds  at  home. 

"But  when  I  come  back,  I  put  up  at  the  old  'Ship' 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  75 

a  day  or  two,  and  didn't  say  who  I  was.  I  thought  I'd 
just  see  how  my  lady  had  been  behaving,  for  there 
might  have  been  another  chap  come  in  and  hung  up 
his  hat  in  my  house.  But  I  found  there  hadn't,  though 
several  had  tried,  some  of  'em  telling  up  tales  about 
being  me,  only  so  changed  by  beating  on  the  rocks 
that  my  own  mother  wouldn't  know  me.  But  to  one 
and  all  that  made  out  to  be  her  long-lost  husband  her 
said  but  one  thing : 

"  'Let  'en  come  in  and  fetch  a  whistle  out  of  the 
old  Toby  jar,  and  I'll  believe  'en.' 

"They  say  there  was  as  many  of  'em  as  half  a  dozen 
at  a  tim$  outside,  waiting  to  blow  away  at  that  old  jar. 

"At  that,  I  togs  myself  up  and  round  to  the  house. 
And  when  I  got  there,  I  didn't  so  much  as  scrape  my 
boots,  for  I  wanted  to  show  I  was  master. 

"  In  I  walked  and  says  I,  '  Bessie,  I  Ve  come  back. ' 

"  'Oh,'  says  she,  'hev'ee?  I've  heard  something  like 
that  before,  I  fancy. ' 

"But  her  knowed  me,  I  could  see  that.  Yet  I  said 
not  a  word.  I  just  picked  up  a  cup  from  the  kitchen 
dresser  and  out  to  the  tap  and  filled  it.  I  poured  the 
water  from  it  into  the  mouthpiece  of  the  old  jar  and 
then  I  lifted  'en  to  my  mouth.  The  sound  come  beau- 
tiful, as  clear  as  the  bo 'sun's  whistle  when  he  pipes 
the  watch.  For  the  drop  of  water  in  the  jug  was  the 
secret  they  other  chaps  couldn't  fathom." 

"And  did  the  whistle  fetch  her?"  asked  the  landlord, 
listening  open-mouthed. 

"It  did,"  he  answered  grimly,  "for  her  said: 
*  Simon,  go  out  this  minute  and  scrape  your  boots. ' 

"And  then  I  knowed  I'd  come  home.  And  never  did 
I  taste  aught  to  equal  the  fried  tetties  and  ham  of  that 
night's  tea.  For  they've  some  points,  the  Devon 
women,  if  'tis  only  a  slick  hand  with  the  frying-pan. ' ' 

"And  where's  the  Toby  jar  now?"  asked  Cole  cun- 
ningly. 


76  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Why,  wherever  Bessie  is,  of  course." 

"And  where's  her?" 

"Not  forty  mile  from  here,  young  man.  No,  nor  yet 
ten.  I  han't  seed  her  for  six  months  or  more,  though. 
But  I'll  warn  if  I  was  to  go  up  not  far  off  the  old  ' Three 
Elms'  I'd  find  Bessie  and  the  Toby." 

"That's  Higher  Brixham,  of  course,"  whispered  Cole 
to  Mr.  Knyvett,  who  nodded  and  remarked  aloud : 

"And  to-day  'twas  her  ghost  you  saw  then?" 

"Ghosts!  ghosts!  don't  'ee  talk  upon  ghosts!  What 
I  have  suffered  from  that  old  trade,  no  tongue  can  tell. 
But  ghosts  don't  yell,  leastwise  the  ones  I  know,  don't, 
nor  call  out:  'Simon,  why  there's  Simon,  the  gal- 
lows-bird!' No,  nor  they  don't  run  round  corners,  nor 
dog  ye!" 

"So  it's  all  out,"  said  Cole. 

"Not  all,"  answered  Mr.  Knyvett,  as  he  suddenly  re- 
called Peter  Westlake's  tales  of  the  witch  women  of 
Brixham.  Leaning  forward  suddenly  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice: 

"What  trade  was  it  then,  Bodinar,  that  you  suf- 
fered from?  Trade  in  ghosts?" 

Bodinar  eyed  him  curiously  for  a  second. 

"Well,"  said  he,  love  of  the  lurid  overcoming  his 
caution,  "how's  this,  mister?  What  do  you  say  when 
a  great  door-key  half  turns  in  the  lock  with  no  human 
hand  touching  it?  That's  happened  not  once  nor 
twice  in  my  house,  when  Bessie's  had  a  bad  case  on. 
I  brought  her  up  to  look  at  it  once;  turned  all  but 
round  in  the  lock  it  was.  The  leastest  little  touch  and 
the  door  would  have  opened.  'Bessie,'  said  I,  'how 
did  that  come  about?'  And  her  laughed  and  said: 
'You  girt  innocent,  I  know  all  about  that.  That's  my 
business;  you  leave  it  to  me.'  And  I  did — leave  it  to 
her.  For  'twasn't  human  hands  as  turned  that  key.'  ' 

Mr.  Cole 's  hair  fairly  stirred  like  quills. 

"A  bad  case?"  stammered  he. 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  77 

''Ay,"  said  Bodinar,  "when  there 'd  been  overlook- 
ing of  man  or  woman  or  cheeld — and  her  was  fighting 
it.  But  there,  'tis  old  gab.  Her's  all  right  in  other 
ways.  Bears  chillern,  and  that,  I  mean.  But  still 
— I  quit.  No,  nor  fried  tetties  wouldn't  keep  me 
nuther.  Just  you  go  and  look  at  her  eyes,  mister,  and  see 
if  you  could  bide  'em  any  more  'n  I  can. ' ' 

"I  will,"  said  Mr.  Knyvett  to  himself.  "It  strikes 
me  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  known  about  Mr.  Bodinar 
and  his  household  that  might  come  in  useful. ' ' 

Then  he  threw  down  the  money  for  the  drinks. 

"Get  him  away  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  said  he  to 
the  mate.  "He'll  probably  deny  it  all  to-morrow,  but 
we've  got  what  we  wanted  anyway.  And  don't  bother 
him  about  Hicks.  I'll  see  to  that  blackguard  all 
right." 

"And  t'other  blackguard,"  cogitated  Cole,  eyeing 
Mr.  Bodinar  with  disgust,  "is  going  to  lead  us  all  on 
a  mad  cruise  round  the  Horn.  Well,  well,  you  never 
can  tell  where  the  maggot '11  bite  the  Old  Man  next. 
Come  on,  you  swine;"  this  to  Simon  Bodinar.  For 
Mr.  Cole,  having  no  taste  for  psychology,  hated  a  rascal 
he  couldn't  see  through.  And  Bodinar  was  very  far 
from  being  transparent. 

A  sudden  storm-cloud  gathered  over  the  channel  and 
whirling  before  the  northeaster  swept  up  the  valley 
above  the  houses  of  Brixham,  whitening  the  grey  roof- 
slates  and  cutting  the  faces  of  those  who  were  abroad 
with  tiny  points  of  steel.  The  chimney  smoke  made 
dirty  blurs  against  the  filmy  veil  that  swept  across  the 
rows  of  bare  stark  houses  which  fill  the  rock-hewn  place 
from  top  to  bottom.  Then,  as  the  storm  rushed  inland, 
a  sudden  glint  of  sunlight  reddened  snowy  roofs. 

It  was  the  following  night  when  Mr.  Knyvett  found 
himself  on  the  winding  road  of  Higher  Brixham,  pass- 
ing up  and  up  between  houses  of  every  date  from  the 
fourteenth  century  to  the  twentieth.  There  were  huge 


78  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

white  chimneys  of  mediseval  cottages  with  stone  benches 
built  in  their  walls  next  to  the  black  and  red  brick 
houses  of  the  folk  who  were  making  a  step  in  life 
and  had  started  a  piano  in  the  parlour.  From  the 
forge  came  the  clanking  of  welded  iron  and  the  smell 
of  singeing  hair.  Beyond  the  street,  against  the 
masses  of  cloud,  a  golden-green  light,  the  essential 
spirit  of  the  burgeoning  time  of  the  year,  hovered 
above  meadow  and  hedgerow.  The  screaming  of  the 
gulls,  as  they  swooped  over  the  purple  of  newly- 
ploughed  land,  shrilled  with  a  note  of  storm;  light  and 
air,  earth  and  sky  rioted  with  life. 

Then  Knyvett  plunged  down  two  steps  into  a  dark 
stone  entrance  place  below  the  level  of  the  street.  As 
he  knocked  he  could  hear  the  wind  whistle  against  low, 
deep,  solid  walls.  From  the  crannies  of  the  closely 
shuttered  window  light  poured.  At  last  the  door  was 
opened  and  a  girl  ushered  him  in,  with  a:  " Mother, 
you're  wanted."  He  heard  the  key  turn  quickly  in 
the  lock  of  the  door  at  his  back.  There  was  a  sense  as 
of  one  being  quickly  swallowed  up  in  the  manner  of 
his  reception  and  in  the  gust  of  warm,  sickly  air  that 
moved  towards  the  draught  of  the  closing  door. 

The  low  room  where  he  found  himself  was  divided 
into  two  by  a  partition,  the  upper  half  of  which  was 
formed  by  a  long  pane  of  glass  covered  with  dingy 
brown  curtains.  It  was  the  sort  of  place  where  every 
surface,  including  that  of  the  skin,  seems  to  gather  a 
scummy  deposit  of  heat  and  dirt.  From  the  tables 
slipped  greasy  table-cloths;  from  the  chairs,  patched 
cushions.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  wicker 
cradle  on  big  rockers.  When  the  girl  opened  the  door 
in  the  partition  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  big  fire  that 
roared  half  up  the  chimney.  From  lines  close  to  the 
ceiling  hung  garments  of  flannelette  and  a  chirping  of 
many  children  made  an  undertone  to  the  sound  of  chat- 
tering women's  voices. 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  79 

At  the  noise  of  the  door  one  of  these  looked  up;  a 
curious  head  it  v.ras  to  see  here,  with  black  bands  of 
hair  bound  fillet-like,  round  the  fine,  haughtily-carried 
head.  Under  lip  met  upper  with  a  square  determina- 
tion that  was  Cromwellian,  but  never  pinched.  The 
features  were  chiselled,  not  moulded,  and  the  chin  had 
a  habit  of  growing  portentously  huge  at  a  mood.  The 
rounded  eyelids  like  ancient  chimney-cowls  shrouded 
the  eyes  from  the  merest  glimpse  of  a  naughty  world. 

Billy  Knyvett  recognized  the  face  in  an  instant  as  he 
pursed  his  lips  for  a  noiseless  whistle.  It  was  the  girl 
called  Molly  Woodruffe. 

' '  Cut,  my  dear,  and  wish, ' '  said  a  hoarse  voice,  as  the 
partition  door  banged. 

Then  followed  the  slither  of  pluffy  cards  and  the 
babble  of  monotonous  patter.  One  of  the  panes  of  the 
partition  was  partially  opened;  it  refused  to  budge 
under  Knyvett 's  hand  and  after  vainly  clattering  about 
to  attract  attention,  he  resigned  himself  to  the  inevita- 
ble. 

"You've  had  a  letter  lately?  And  been  a  bit  wor- 
ried about  it  ?  A  letter  from  a  foreign  port  ?  And  you 
don't  know  what  to  do?  You've  been  in  two  minds 
about  it?" 

Walking  gingerly,  like  Agag,  the  woman  went  on : 

"But  he's  coming  home.  So  much  is  plain.  Shuffle 
again,  my  dear,  and  cut.  And  then  let's  see." 

"Silly  little  fool,"  ejaculated  Knyvett,  wondering 
whether  he  had  better  break  in  on  the  tete-a-tete  and 
put  the  girl  to  mortification  or  burst  open  the  locked 
door  at  the  back  of  him. 

"Queer:  he's  a  married  man,  too.  But  there's  a 
ring  for  you;  after  a  time.  And  as  regards  your  own 
self,  all  will  be  to  your  satisfaction.  It's  a  good  for- 
tune. It  will  be  decided  this  year  to  your  satisfaction. 
If  you  wish  it.  Yes,  a  dark  woman  and  a  heart  man. 
And  you  between." 


80  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Then  came  a  skirl  of  laughter  and  a  sudden  screech : 

"Maria,  come  here.  Come  here  when  I  tell  you." 
Then  in  a  monotone:  "You  never  would  believe  the 
trouble  I  have  with  that  child.  I  beat  her,  beat  the  life 
nearly  out  of  her.  But  she's  that  wilful.  Maria,  come 
here  and  read  the  crystal  for  the  lady.  Yes,  my  eyes 
give  out.  But  she's  been  trained.  She'll  see  what 
there  is  to  see. 

"No,  my  dear,  hold  it  in  the  left  hand.  There's  a 
vein  to  the  left  hand  straight  from  the  heart,  with  the 
glass  ball  against  the  velvet.  That's  it.  Now,  Maria, 
speak  up  plain  and  tell  the  lady  exactly." 

There  followed  the  hiss  of  an  upturned  gas  jet  and 
then  a  girl's  voice  chaunting: 

"I  see  a  dark  face,  a  man's  face.  He  stares  a  great 
deal.  He  wears  eyeglasses  and  a  fair  moustache.  He's 
got  funny  eyebrows,  they  run  up  into  points. ' ' 

"That's  right,  isn't  it?"  asked  the  woman.  And 
from  her  tone  of  satisfaction  Knyvett  knew  she  was 
reading  the  girl's  face. 

"I  can't  see  any  more,"  said  the  child's  voice.  It 
sounded  bored  and  tired. 

Knyvett  stood  stockstill,  searching  for  a  clue.  The 
pointed  eyebrows  were  unusual. 

"By  the  Lord!"  cried  Knyvett  at  last,  for  he  had 
got  his  clue.  It  was  by  no  means  difficult  to  grasp,  for 
the  Woodruffes  were  well  known  in  the  district.  So, 
too,  was  the  man  described  in  the  crystal.  The  only 
inexplicable  thing  was  why  the  girl  should  be  here. 
Yet  her  voice  sounded  hot,  eager,  faltering  with  anxiety. 

Knyvett  stood,  hands  in  pockets,  searching  his  mind 
for  what  it  knew  of  Molly  Woodruffe. 

Sara  had  always  been  sorry  for  her,  yet  half  envious 
of  her  nerve  and  spirit.  For  the  "Woodruffes  had 
climbed  from  depths  of  poverty  and  helplessness  in  a 
manner  only  possible  to  indomitable  will.  It  had  been 
a  splendid  fight,  waged  by  the  mother  with  the  old 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  81 

feminine  weapons  of  wheedling  and  cajolery,  by  the 
daughter  with  brain  and  determination. 

All  Molly's  life  had  consisted  of  excursions  and 
alarms  with  her  mother,  since  never  was  the  devil's 
wedlock  of  parenthood  more  viciously  interlocked  than 
in  the  case  of  these  two.  It  began  with  looks,  for 
florid,  fair-haired  Mrs.  Woodruffe  found  her  daughter 
developing  into  an  olive-complexioned  girl  of  the  wing- 
necked,  big-eyed  type.  Molly's  eyes,  in  fact,  went 
with  the  potted  meats  on  which  her  father  had  tried  to 
found  a  fortune  and  failed  and  both  were  the  crosses 
of  Mrs.  Woodruffe 's  existence.  Mr.  Woodruffe,  being 
responsible  for  them,  had  departed  early  in  life  for  a 
sphere  where  potted  meats  cannot  penetrate  and  where 
the  angelic  wings  go  not  ill  with  ivory  skins.  But 
worst  of  all  was  the  fact  that  Molly  defied  the  atmos- 
phere of  sham  which  her  mother  regarded  as  invigora- 
ting ozone.  And  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  who  considered  any 
sign  of  power  in  a  woman's  face  unseemly,  found  that 
the  quality  her  child's  face  expressed  was  also  present 
in  her  character.  "Mother  is  such  a  liar,"  Molly  would 
say,  ostentatiously  displaying  jars  of  potted  meat. 

That  had  been  the  beginning:  the  end  was  a  blank 
refusal  to  accept  a  genteel  and  silly  boarding-school 
education.  Instead,  she  had  forced  her  mother  to  pay 
for  class  fees  in  hard-headed  subjects,  had  pinched  and 
pared,  had  worn  an  old  sailor  hat  three  seasons  and  had 
finally  taken  a  good  degree  in  Honours. 

Now  she  spent  half  her  year  rushing  up  and  down 
England,  getting  up  facts  and  speeches  for  the  Member 
of  Parliament  to  whom  she  was  secretary.  She  could 
pack  a  bag  in  ten  minutes,  grasp  the  true  inwards  of 
a  strike  in  a  day,  and  write  the  synopsis  of  a  speech 
in  half  an  hour.  In  effect,  she  was  known  as  the  quick- 
est worker  in  her  profession,  that  of  devilling.  Her 
salary  should  have  beeen  £500,  but  she  only  got  £120, 
for  M.  P.'s  like  cheap — and  efficient — woman's  work 


82  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

as  well  as  do  other  employers  of  labour.  She  could 
travel  and  work  and  play  with  no  signs  of  fatigue  ex- 
cept the  blue  rims  under  her  eyes.  Once  only  had  she 
enjoyed  a  rest  cure  and  that  was  in  Hollo  way,  when  she 
went  to  gaol  for  a  month  after  an  affray  at  West- 
minster, since,  having  no  money  to  pay  for  her  return 
ticket,  Holloway  had  presented  itself  as  a  safe  asylum. 
Therefore  she  had  grappled  with  a  policeman  and  after- 
wards boasted  that  she  put  on  three  pounds  in  weight 
during  her  residence  in  that  squalid  spot. 

Now  the  woman  who  can  put  on  three  pounds  on 
prison  diet  is  a  thing  worth  something. 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  had,  in  fact,  hatched  an  eaglet  and 
not  being  by  any  means  such  a  fool  as  she  looked,  knew 
it.  She  could  not,  of  course,  alter  the  fact,  so  she  spent 
her  time  in  wondering  why  she  had  not  given  birth 
to  a  ''womanly"  woman.  Vaguely  reminiscent  of  scrip- 
ture, she  used  to  wail:  "Looks  will  fade,  and  styles 
change,  but  womanliness  never  faileth." 

Then  she  tried  something  more  effective  by  taking 
a  house  in  Devonshire  and  contriving  to  hoist  herself 
into  society  mainly  by  the  help  of  the  Herefords,  who 
were  distinguished  and  yet  Bohemian.  This  suited 
Molly  exactly  for  it  gave  her  an  opportunity  during 
holiday  times  of  breathing  good  air,  drinking  milk  and 
going  to  bed  early.  She  had,  in  fact,  being  a  wise 
virgin,  counted  every  card  in  her  hand  and  knew  that 
the  trump  was  physical  health.  If  not  beautiful,  a 
woman  may  always  appear  distinguished ;  Molly  had  no 
intention  whatever  of  fading  before  sixty  and  after  that 
she  had  already  decided  how  she  would  pile  up  her  hair 
and  look  like  a  duchess. 

It  was  not  for  nothing  that  they  were  known  as  the 
Fighting  Family. 

"Hard,  hard,  hard,"  sighed  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  who 
always  relied  on  folly  as  her  weapon  and  never  read 
a  novel  written  in  a  style  more  subtle  than  sign-painting. 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  83 

And  it  was  this  hard  woman  who  went  to  Bessie 
Bodinar  to  know  the  future!  Meanwhile  Mr.  Knyvett 
prickled  all  over  his  skin  at  the  idea  that  he  was 
prying  in  secret  places;  he  felt  as  mean  as  a  man  who 
has  read  a  locked  diary. 

But  to  the  Bodinar  house  there  was  evidently  a  back 
door,  for  after  the  clink  of  coin  there  followed  a  silence, 
the  partition  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Bodinar  came  in. 

"My  goodness  gracious!"  cried  she,  "and  the  good 
gent  here  all  the  time!  You  must  please  excuse  us 
being  all  of  a  caddie,  but  what  with  my  work  and  my 
children,  I  do  say  I  never  have  so  much  as  time  to 
put  my  clothes  on." 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  cradle  and  she  giggled  as  she 
lifted  it  and  leaning  it  against  her  protuberant  body, 
carried  it  into  the  other  room. 

"A  poverty  basket  this,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  never 
have  nort  to  do  with  it.  And  here  I  am  with  my 
last,  last  of  six  living  and  four  buried,  born  when  I 
was  forty-five,  in  my  forty-sixth  year.  But  there,  you 
never  know  your  luck." 

Black,  protruding  eyes,  half  cunning  and  half  mad, 
stared  from  a  square  head  on  a  short  squat  neck  that 
projected  above  a  shapeless  bosom  ill-covered  by  a  pin- 
fastened  bodice.  A  gilt  belt  cut  her  body  into  two 
halves. 

"Sleep!"  said  she,  "I  never  sleep  scarcely.  For  'tis 
always  working  all  round  me." 

She  grasped  at  the  air. 

"And  sleep's  queer,  too,  for  a  body  seems  to  wander 
here  and  there.  And  then  they  come  to  me,  they  that 
are  in  need  of  me.  I  saw  one  of  my  ladies  t'other 
night  as  plain  as  I  see  you,  standing  by  my  bed  with 
her  furs  on.  'Bodinar,'  says  she,  'I'm  in  trouble.' 
And  the  next  day  her  was  here  in  the  flesh  sure  'miff. ' ' 

The  elder  girl,  a  white-faced  creature  with  a  flat, 
wide-spreading  nose  and  close-set,  sinister  eyes,  stood 


84  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

behind  her  mother.  A  tiny  girl  sat  pressing  pins  into 
a  cushion  with  fierce  dents;  another  child  cried  from 
the  cradle.  Hastily  rushing  in,  Mrs.  Bodinar  began 
to  rock  it  to  and  fro  with  hard  jolts  that  flung  the 
baby  from  side  to  side.  The  wails  never  ceasing,  she 
lifted  it  out  and  began  to  unfasten  her  bodice.  The 
child  was  at  least  two  years  old. 

"It's  a  save,"  said  she,  excusing  herself. 

And  Knyvett  sat  and  wondered  how  a  theologian 
would  justify  the  fate  to  which  this  woman's  children 
were  born,  shut  in  to  superstition,  to  fear  and  trickery 
and  lies.  The  white-faced  reader  of  the  crystal  might 
be  fourteen.  She  wore  a  lace-trimmed  blouse  and  short 
sleeves  and  plainly  longed  to  be  off  up  street  with  the 
lads,  but  dared  not  move.  Large  and  fat  and  white, 
all  the  children  were ;  the  foetid  air  got  on  his  nerves. 

"But  you  wanted  a  touch  of  my  art,"  said  the 
woman,  and  crawling  to  a  table  with  the  child  cling- 
ing to  her  she  pushed  a  pack  of  filthy  cards  towards  him. 

"Have  you  done  this  sort  of  thing  for  long?"  asked 
Knyvett,  mechanically  shuffling  and  cutting. 

' '  Ten  year,  perhaps.  My  mother  did  it  afore  me  and 
her  mother  afore  that.  I've  heard  that  never  a  trawler 
sailed  out  in  they  days,  but  the  skipper  'ud  come  up 
for  a  bit  of  Gran's  art.  But  times  is  changed  now. 
'Tjs  the  bettermost  folks  that  come  to  me.  From  all 
over  the  country  they  come,  in  motor-cars  and  carriages. 
And  I'm  not  the  only  one.  One  hussy  goes  up  from 
here  to  London  for  six  months  of  the  year  and  has  a 
flat  there.  But  not  me !  My  blackguard  of  a  husband 's 
left  me  again  and  I  can't  traipse  about  free." 

"Mrs.  Bodinar,"  asked  Knyvett,  "what's  your  hus- 
band like?  I  met  a  Bodinar  not  so  long  ago." 

"And  if  you  said  you'd  seen  'en  this  very  week  to 
Dartmouth,  you'd  maybe  be  telling  the  truth.  But  he 
give  me  the  go-by,  the  dirty  hound." 

' '  And  if  I  can  help  you  to  lay  hands  on  him,  will  you 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  85 

do  what  I  want  you  to  do?  No,  damn  the  cards.  I 
didn't  come  for  that." 

"Then  you're  the  police?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  And  I  don't  mean  to  do  you  any 
harm.  But  I  do  mean  to  stop  your  working  more  mis- 
chief. By  some  carelessness  I  was  left  in  the  other 
room — " 

' '  That 's  Maria 's  doing.     Her  '11  pay  for  it. ' ' 

"I  know  the  young  lady  you  had  here.  And  so  do 
you.  And  I  know  the  man  your  child  described.  And 
so  do  you.  No,  no  names,  please — " 

He  raised  his  hand  to  secure  silence. 

"Now  what  did  you  mean  by  coupling  their  names  in 
the  way  you  did?  What  has  the  girl  to  do  with  that 
man?" 

"Why,  they  was-  together  every  day  this  autumn, 
boating,  in  the  woods  and  that." 

Knyvett  lit  a  cigarette,  conscious  of  her  shrewd  eyes 
on  him. 

' '  That  so  ? "  he  smiled.  ' '  You  saw  them  in  the  crystal, 
I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  them  in  the  crystal,"  answered  she 
sullenly. 

Suddenly  her  manner  changed  completely  as,  turning 
to  her  eldest  daughter,  she  bade  her  leave  the  house. 
Mr.  Knyvett  began  to  perceive  that  there  might  be  sev- 
eral women  under  Bessie  Bodinar  's  skin. 

"You  think  you've  seen  my  husband?"  she  asked, 
when  they  were  alone  but  for  the  younger  children. 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Knyvett,  "a  thin-faced  man  with 
a  reddish  beard  and  a  chamois  leather  bag.  He  coughs 
behind  the  back  of  his  hands  and  talks  of  'mineral 
wealth';  has  a  precise  way  of  speaking  when  he  begins; 
talks  of  enjoying  good  health,  and  that,  but  when  he's 
up  the  pole — " 

' '  Talks  like  a  book, ' '  interposed  Mrs.  Bodinar. 

"Well,  like  some  books." 


86  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"That's  Simon,  then,"  sighed  she. 

"And  out  of  the  chamois  bag,"  said  Knyvett  slowly, 
"he  pours  a  blackish  dust — " 

"Iss,  fay,  but  'twas  gravel,  not  dust,  as  I  turned  out 
of  his  breeches  pockets. ' ' 

A  droll  notion  struck  Knyvett  and  he  began  to  laugh, 
while  Mrs.  Bodinar  watched  him,  red-eyed  and  sus- 
picious. 

"Mrs.  Bodinar,"  asked  he,  "shall  we  do  a  deal? 
You  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  and  I'll — " 

"Find  me  Simon  that  I  may  get  my  nails  into  'en 
and  I'll  do  anything  you  want." 

"I'll  better  that.  For  I'll  take  you  off  in  the  same 
ship  with  him.  You  shall  meet  on  the  high  seas  and 
go  round  the  world  together,  if  it  suits  your  book. ' ' 

For  all  the  time  his  thought  was  boring  like  a  mole 
into  the  matter  of  Molly  "Woodruffe ;  he  had  it  in  mind, 
in  fact,  to  clear  the  board  of  all  extra  pieces.  And  it 
struck  him  that  Mrs.  Bodinar  was  dangerously  engaged 
in  stoking  up  too  many  fires. 

"And  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  know  all  you  can  tell  me  of  the  matter 
of  the  chamois  bag." 

But  she  was  paying  no  attention,  for  he  had  appar- 
ently struck  down  on  yet  another  Mrs.  Bodinar,  the 
mother  woman  this  time. 

"Simon's  been  my  husband  for  twenty  year — off  and 
on,"  she  added  grimly.  "For  he's  a  wandering  cove 
and  one  roof  and  one  woman  don't  suit  'en  for  long. 
Once  he  give  out  he  was  wrecked  and  then  he  come 
back  after  years  and — " 

"Whistled  down  the  old  Toby  jug,"  said  Knyvett. 

' '  Then  you  know  that,  too  ? " 

' '  Told  it  in  the  '  Valiant  Sailor '  on  Dartmouth  quay. ' ' 

"Ah,  Simon,  Simon,"  cried  Mrs.  Bodinar,  suddenly 
doting  like  a  mother  over  a  dear,  but  naughty  child, 
"in  how  many  bars  hath  a'  told  that,  I  wonder?" 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  87 

"What  do  you  know  about  that  chamois  bag?" 

"Chamois  bag,"  said  she,  "why,  you've  got  that  on 
the  brain,  sir.  I  know  he  told  up  a  lot  of  old  trade 
about  the  gold-dust  he'd  found.  Used  to  go  round 
bragging  that  he  could  make  any  man's  fortune  that 
he  liked.  But  his  breeches  pockets  were  full  of  gravel 
and  he'd  a  bit  of  paper  with  lines  on  it  in  his  sea- 
chest.  That  I  burnt,  for  'twas  mucksy  old  trade. ' ' 

"Do  you  believe  that  by  any  chance  there  might  be 
some  truth  in  his  story?" 

"Well,  Simon's  a  liar,  but  he  isn't  a  liar  all  through, 
as  you  mid  say." 

"I'm  no  nearer,"  said  Knyvett,  pacing  up  and  down. 
"For  I  knew  that  before.  But  you've  done  your  best. 
I'll  be  frank.  We're  getting  ready  to  send  out  an  ex- 
pedition to  look  for  the  gold  your  husband  talks  of. 
Apparently  we're  the  first  people  he's  found,  after 
years  of  gab,  to  take  him  seriously." 

"You'll  promise  you'll  put  me  so's  Bodinar  can't  get 
away  if  I  tell  all  I  know?" 

"I  promise." 

"Sir,  sir,"  her  face  worked,  "you  don't  know  what 
I've  gone  through.  I've  been  nigh  mad  over  it  all, 
for  it  always  seemed  to  me  I'd  done  it.  It's  Simon. 
Down  and  down  he's  been  going  all  these  years.  Not 
so  many  years  ago  he  wTas  cox  of  a  lifeboat,  trusted,  up 
in  the  world.  There  wasn't  a  finer  seaman  anywhere. 
Glad  to  get  'en  they  was,  for  a  hard  bit  of  work. 
Then  he  come  down,  step  by  step,  till  he's  thankful 
to  get  fifteen  shilling  a  week.  'Twas  my  queer  trade 
partly.  He  hated  it,  but  I'd  been  used  to  it  all  my 
life.  Couldn't  do  without  the  fortune-telling,  but  it 
turned  'en  sickish,  he  used  to  say.  And  yet  I  can 
manage  'en  better 'n  anybody,  when  I've  got  'en  by 
me.  And  many  the  time,  when  I've  heard  some  other 
woman's  man  go  wambling  down  the  street,  all  drinky, 
I  've  wondered  what  my  poor  Sim  was  doing. ' ' 


88  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"But  your  trade?" 

"I'll  give  it  up  though  'tis  in  my  blood.  I  will,  if 
you'll  put  me  so's  I  can  get  to  Simon.  You  can't  man- 
age 'en  without  me.  And  though  it  brings  heaving  in 
my  innerds  so  much  as  to  look  at  the  sea,  I'll  put  away 
the  chillern  to  my  sister's  and  go." 

"But  the  gold-dust?" 

"I'll  worm  it  out  of  'en.  I'd  gie  my  soul  to  the 
old  black  man  to  get  Sim  back,  I  would. ' ' 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  her  face  fiery  red  and  the 
sweat  shining  on  her  forehead. 

' '  Can  'ee  bring  it  to  pass,  sir  ? " 

Her  attitude  was  full  of  a  certain  truthfulness,  due 
in  part  to  her  reliance  on  his  manhood  and  his  wealth; 
he  belonged,  she  knew,  to  those  who  get  things  done. 

"Yes,"  said  Knyvett.  Then  he  laughed,  for  there 
are  fools  who  consider  working  folks  simple. 

He  wandered  down  to  the  road  that  winds  above  the 
quay.  In  the  midst  of  the  dense  mass  of  vessels  in 
harbour  one  trawler  was  puffing  out  clouds  of  steam. 
From  the  forest  of  masts  and  shaggy  trawls  came  the 
hoarse  cries  of  men  and  the  clank  of  moving  gear. 
Then,  like  a  huge  bat's  wing,  a  dark  sail  was  jerked 
aloft. 

Pencils  of  quivering  light  stretched  across  the  water 
of  the  outer  harbour,  reflections  from  the  houses  on  the 
cliff.  Around  the  great  bay  the  shore  lights  faded  into 
dim  channel  distances  whence  came  the  multitudinous 
voice  of  the  sea.  A  siren  hooted  three  times  from  the 
coal-hulks  that  bristled  with  black  derrick  arms.  A 
hissing  tug  bustled  across  the  stillness.  Like  a  yellow 
shutter  the  traceried  window  of  St.  Peter  the  Fisher- 
man glowed  from  the  dull  fronts  of  the  mass  of  houses 
above  him ;  across  it  he  could  see  the  shadow  of  a  beam 
in  the  ceiling.  It  was  the  outward  sign  of  the  inward 
fear  of  the  Unknown. 

For  one  need  not  go  to  a  savage  African  tribe  to  learn 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  89 

how  men  may  dread  the  forces  of  nature.  Even  here 
they  are  perfectly  aware  that  it  won't  do  to  defy  the 
Something  back  of  the  veil,  which  is  all  that  the  wisest 
of  us  can  affirm  as  yet;  hence  the  piety  that  is  two- 
thirds  superstition.  Many  a  boat  of  the  Brixham  fleet 
will  draw  up  a  trawl  of  a  Saturday  night  in  mid-ocean 
and  not  let  it  down  till  midnight  Sunday  night.  Yet 
they  never  pull  the  unknown  dead  aboard,  even  though 
it  has  been  in  the  water  but  an  hour  or  so,  lest  the 
legal  expenses  of  burial  should  fall  on  the  boat's  crew, 
since  it  is  the  devil,  not  the  ghost,  that  is  feared  in  this 
town.  Every  sea-faring  place  has  its  special  cult,  as 
well  as  its  own  fishing-grounds  and  peculiar  brand  of 
morality. 

The  narrow  courts  and  wynds  are  full  of  terrors ;  up 
that  steep  stairway  by  the  Coffin  House  no  one  must 
walk  on  a  New  Year's  Eve,  for  an  unseen  spirit  hurls 
one  back,  leaving  the  body  black  and  blue  from  con- 
flict. Up  above  the  raised  stone  stairway  called  the 
Overgang  is  a  house  where  a  doorway  opened  three 
times  without  human  touch  on  the  night  when  four 
boats  of  the  fleet  went  down  in  a  hurricane.  When 
Christmas  Eve  was  over  the  wives  gave  up  hope  of  ever 
seeing  their  men  again,  but  the  only  certain  tidings  that 
came  was  the  thrice-opened  door  of  one  man 's  home. 

Molly  Woodruffe  in  her  life  of  constant  bustle  was  so 
used  to  unexpected  meetings  that  she  showed  no  sur- 
prise when  Knyvett  appeared  at  her  elbow  as  she  leant 
over  the  low  wall  above  the  harbour.  As  she  used  to 
put  it  forcibly:  the  Archangel  Gabriel  in  the  hall  of 
Hades  would  scarcely  have  caused  her  a  start.  But 
when  Billy  saw  how  white  and  dispirited  the  girl 
looked,  he  marvelled  at  the  strange  things  women  carry 
under  their  silence,  that  silence  of  the  centuries  which 
is  so  profound  that  when  it  is  broken  their  voice  sounds 
like  a  cry. 

But  he  was  practical,  too,  and  insisted  on  finding  a 


90  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

tea-shop.  On  the  quay-front,  therefore,  with  the  pro- 
tuberant corporation  of  William  of  Orange  like  a  fly- 
ing buttress  outside,  they  sat  in  the  window  over  a  meal, 
while  the  cat  crept  into  her  arms.  A  weird  black 
creature,  with  yellow  eyes,  he  clung  to  the  girl's  breast, 
with  cold  hind  toes  curled  up  on  her  palms  and  damp 
nose  against  her  cheek.  A  low-spirited,  cringing  thing 
he  was,  who  might  have  been  a  man  imprisoned  for 
his  sins  in  the  form  of  a  beast  that  crawls  on  his  belly. 
It  was  ugly ;  Billy  tore  it  away  from  her,  for  he  remem- 
bered Mrs.  Bodinar. 

"I've  been  trying  to  touch  the  feet  of  the  rainbow 
to-night,"  said  Molly  at  last  when  the  "drunkard's 
tea"  he  made  her  drink  had  turned  the  world  to  a  more 
bearable  place.  "Don't  you  know  how  children  always 
want  to  get  to  the  place  where  the  blues  and  greens 
strike  the  earth?  It  is  so  hard  to  wait  for  nice  things. 
You  want  to  hurry  up  and  get  to  them — quick." 

He  remembered  what  he  heard  someone  say  of  her: 
was  any  girl  ever  as  innocent  as  that  girl  looks?  It 
was  because  of  that  memory  that  he  dared  to  be  sin- 
cere: 

"Ah,"  he  said  slowly,  "one  doesn't  get  there  till 
another  person's  life  is  as  dear  to  one  as  one's  own. 
And  that  doesn't  come  about  in  a  year  or  a  day.  I 
fancy  many  a  fat  grocer  and  his  wife  know  more  about 
it  than  your  young  lover." 

' '  Always  man  and  woman,  of  course  ? ' '  she  sneered. 

"Not  always.  But  most  often.  Which  is  perhaps 
why  man  and  woman  are.  Then  it  stretches  to  children 
— and  so  outwards.  From  the  small  tie  to  the  large. ' ' 

"Yes,  always  a  tie,  always  chains.  That's  true,  any- 
way, if  nothing  else  is." 

"No;  not  chains.     Welding  together.     Fusion." 

"Worse  than  ever!"  she  laughed.  Then  suddenly 
cooed. 

"What  a  nice  man  you  are!" 


91 

He  laughed,  started  and  blushed,  looking  at  her 
kindly,  the  more  so  for  the  trap-door  through  which  he 
had  gazed  unwillingly  into  her  private  thought-world, 
the  world  we  hide  so  jealously — and  reveal  so  clearly. 

Then  the  great  English  instinct,  the  passion  for  duty, 
bit  him  fiercely.  For  she  wanted  help  so  badly;  yet 
how  could  he  give  it,  without  hurting  her  cruelly?  No 
man  is  so  quixotically  keen  on  doing  his  duty  as  the 
free  lance  who  refuses  to  acknowledge  any  claims. 
Since  he  has  a  way  of  finding  duties  where  the  man  of 
law  and  order  with  a  suburban  villa  and  five  children 
to  maintain  would  comfortably  pass  by  on  the  other 
side.  For  Quixotes  therefore,  thank  Heaven;  provided 
of  course  that  they  give  the  man-trap  of  priggishness  a 
wide  berth. 

"  Any  way,"  said  Knyvett  to  himself,  "I  can  kidnap 
Mrs.  Bodinar.  Confound  her ! ' ' 

Yet  his  face  softened,  even  to  Mrs.  Bodinar,  although 
he  could  scarcely  forgive  her  the  fat  white  children, 
like  anaemic  toads. 

Then  Molly  herself  gave  him  a  lead,  for  she  was,  after 
all,  a  transparent  person  who  could  not  keep  her  tongue 
off  the  person  most  in  her  thoughts. 

"I've  been  to  a  fortune  teller,"  she  cried,  "who  de- 
scribed Archer  Bellew  to  me  exactly.  I  wonder  how 
far  it's  true  that  things  which  are  going  to  happen 
already  are,  so  it's  only  an  accident  that  one  can't  see 
them  in  front  of  one." 

Then  her  face  flushed  scarlet,  for  in  the  flash  of  his 
eyes  and  the  quick  veiling  of  them,  she  saw  how  she 
had  revealed  herself.  Archer  Bellew  was — in  the  things 
that  were  prepared  for  her.  Yet  Archer  Bellew  was 
Sara's  husband. 

He  covered  her  lapse  by  remarking  quietly : 

"Of  course  the  woman  knows  all  the  gossip.  And 
Bellew  bulks  large  in  people's  fancies  down  here,  no 
doubt." 


92  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

"And  everywhere,"  she  answered  curtly.  "There 
are  some  people  everyone  talks  about.  But  of  course 
you  take  his  wife 's  side. ' ' 

"Why?" 

"Gracious!  Mr.  Knyvett,  you  don't  want  me  to  ex- 
plain?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  thought  her  vulgar. 

"Of  course,"  she  continued,  "that  marriage  was  all 
wrong.  He  was  engaged  to  Margaret  Rossiter,  you 
know,  when  Mr.  Hereford  put  his  spoke  in  the  wheel 
and  carried  him  off  for  Sara. ' ' 

"Margaret  Rossiter,  the  artist?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  No  one  seems  to  know  exactly  why 
it  was  broken  off.  But,  anyway,  it's  made  Margaret 
famous.  Queer,  wasn't  it,  that  the  Herefords,  who  are 
so  incurably  dilettante  in  general  and  who  never  get 
anything  done  because  nothing's  quite  exquisite  enough 
to  satisfy  them,  should  have  pulled  off  a  marriage  with 
such  a  man?  But  old  Mr.  Hereford  evidently  used  up 
all  the  will  in  that  family.  They  've  run  short  of  it  ever 
since. ' ' 

She  was  her  cheerful,  mocking  self  once  more. 

"So  that's  how  the  Herefords  strike  you?"  said  he. 

"Of  course.  So  they  do  everybody.  I  call  it  the 
Amazing  Marriage.  But  if  I'd  Sara  Bellew's  talent  for 
music,  I'd  never  stay  down  here  to  be  neglected  by  my 
husband.  And  look  at  Anne!  Of  course  she  has 
knocked  off  her  medical  work  and  come  home.  She 
wouldn't  be  a  Hereford  if  she  persevered." 

Infinite  scorn  rang  in  her  voice.  Every  tone  said: 
"Look  at  me  for  a  contrast." 

"But  the  Bellew  menage  is  bound  to  go  smash,"  she 
concluded,  as  they  turned  up  the  street  to  the  station. 

"You  think  so?"  he  asked,  his  thoughts  running 
hither  and  thither  like  the  wood  lice  when  their  stone 
is  overturned. 

"Don't  you?"  she  snapped.    "Oh,  what  an  atmos- 


A  SIBYL  OF  THE  SLUMS  93 

phere  of  lies  and  hypocrisy  we  live  in!  Why  should 
marriage  in  England  be  the  one  thing  in  which  you 
may  not  confess  you've  made  a  mistake  and  begin  over 
again?  They  all  talk  as  if  it  was  divorce,  open  break, 
that  mattered,  when  it's  the  thing  that  brought  about 
the  divorce  which  is  all  that  matters.  But  it's  all 
right  so  long  as  you  don't  put  things  as  right  as  they 
can  be  put,  fair  and  square  and  open,  all  right  as  long 
as  you  don't  get  in  the  papers.  Don't  you  agree?" 

"Absolutely.  Divorce  doesn't  take  place  when  the 
decree  is  made  absolute,  but  when  two  people  look  dif- 
ferent ways.  But  it's  all  wrong  to  let  passion  settle  the 
thing.  It  should  be  deliberate,  reasoned  choice  that  does 
it,  choice  that  looks  all  ways,  that  judges  when  the  tie 
is  slavery." 

"That's  impossible." 

"It  shouldn't  be.  "We  reason  when  we  build  bridges, 
we  reason  when  we  build  states.  We  must  reason  ever 
so  much  more  carefully  when  we  wreck  old  homes  to 
build  new  ones." 

The  girl  was  startled  at  his  hard  tones  which  bespoke 
in  all  their  special  pleading  so  deep  an  emotion.  Then 
the  man's  hatred  of  the  explicit  overcame  him  and  he 
shied  from  what  he  meant  to  say,  which  was:  "Don't 
burn  your  fingers  for  a  piece  of  folly. ' ' 

What  he  actually  said,  was : 

"But  all  this  can  be  nothing  to  you." 

Then  the  train  carried  her  away. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS :  IN  THIS  A  MAN  OF  BELIAL 
COMES   HOME 

66T  ONLY  want  to  see  my  little  girl  with  someone 

-»-  to  look  after  her,"  wailed  Mrs.  Woodruffe, 
thinking  with  horror  of  the  ruffled  turkey-cock  she 
would  presently  be  ushering  into  the  drawing-room  at 
Craneham. 

Her  bright  colour  seemed  to  have  been  laid  on  in 
streaks  that  had  run;  her  clothes  always  shone  with 
newness  and  bristled  with  stiffness,  while  her  opinions 
changed  with  the  seasons  and  her  toupets.  A  tightly- 
corseted  woman  in  general,  she  was  proportionately  re- 
laxed in  moments  of  abandon. 

"Looked  after!  You  know  I  don't  want  to  be  looked 
after.  You  make  me  sick,"  snapped  Molly.  "No,  they 
didn't  talk  like  that  when  you  were  young,  because  they 
were  such  liars  then." 

"You've  not  an  atom  of  proper  respect  rfor  your 
mother,"  shrilled  Mrs.  Woodruffe. 

"No,  I've  not.  Why  should  I?  A  good  many  years 
ago  you  found  yourself  obliged  to  put  up  with  some 
discomfort  in  bringing  me  into  the  world,  but  I  don't 
see  why  that  should  make  me  endure  treatment  from  you 
that  I  wouldn't  take  from  anybody  else." 

"Molly!  will  you  overthrow  all  the  ten  command- 
ments?" 

"Every  blessed  one  of  them  if  they  teach  rot.  All  you 
want  to  do  is  to  use  me  to  boost  yourself  up  in  the  world 
by  marrying  me  well.  And  then  you  turn  round  and 
ask  me  to  be  grateful  for  it.  Well,  I  'm  not. ' ' 

94 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS         95 

For  these  two  time  and  space  had  contracted  to  the  in- 
cessant repetition  of  water-dropping.  Yet,  although  the 
mother's  face  was  flushed  and  her  hands  were  trembling, 
her  anger  was  peevish  rather  than  murderous,  for  she 
belonged  to  a  generation  that  seems  to  regard  domestic 
brawls  as  in  the  order  of  nature. 

"You  really  are,"  cried  she,  "the  most  irritating  girl 
ever  born.  Here  am  I,  straining  every  nerve  for  you, 
and  you  do  nothing  but  set  your  face  like  a  flint  and 
your  feet  like  a  mule. ' ' 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  strain  every  nerve  for  me. 
I  wouldn't  have  you  do  anything  so  indecent,"  drawled 
Molly. 

"Now  I  suppose  you  think  you've  said  something 
clever.  But  it's  quite  thrown  away  upon  me." 

"  I  'm  perfectly  aware  of  that,  mother. ' ' 

"White-capped  and  foam-flecked,  the  bay  gleamed 
blue  beyond  the  hedges  between  which  they  walked, 
heated  and  furious,  on  the  way  up  to  pay  a  call  on 
the  Herefords.  Mrs.  "Woodruffe's  anger  had  a  ser- 
pentine expression  about  it;  she  placed  hand  on  hip 
and  darted  her  head  forward  with  each  venomous 
sentence. 

"And,"  continued  the  girl,  "if  ever  I'm  driven  to 
something  desperate,  it'll  be  your  doing  and  nobody 
else's." 

"And  it's  all  for  your  sake  that  I'm  toiling  up  the 
hill  in  the  afternoon  sun, ' '  wailed  the  poor  lady.  ' '  But 
it's  so  ostentatious  to  bring  out  the  carriage  for  such  a 
little  way.  And  I  do  so  detest  ostentation.  But  I  posi- 
tively must  have  the  Craneham  people  for  the  party. 
Archer  Bellew  is  such  a  draw,  for  everybody  talks  about 
him  and  her  music  helps  the  people  to  talk.  Though 
really  the  last  time  Sara  Bellew  played,  I  almost  made 
up  my  mind  never  to  ask  her  again.  It  was  positively 
just  like  a  professional,  from  the  way  she  walked  up  to 
the  piano  to  the  way  she  ran  her  hand  over  the  keys. 


96  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

She  might  actually  have  been  on  a  public  platform. 
Nothing  could  possibly  have  been  more  vulgar. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Bellew  is  practically  a  professional,  of  course. 
And  it's  great  cheek  in  us  to  ask  her  to  play  for  nothing. 
If  she  were  a  man  she'd  send  in  a  thumping  cheque  for 
'professional  services.'  " 

"You  really  do  make  me  quite  faint,  Molly,"  said 
Mrs.  Woodruffe,  purple  with  aggravation,  fear  and  ex- 
ercise. "You  do  say  such  absolutely  preposterous 
things.  We  are  not  the  people  to  know  professionals. ' ' 

' '  "We  're  not.  You  're  right.  But  Archer  Bellew  won 't 
come.  You  surely  don't  imagine  that  he  would.  He's 
much  too  big  a  gun  to  prop  such  a  one-horse-shay  sort  of 
affair." 

"Then  you  must  get  him  to.  You  owe  it  to  me  to 
make  my  social  efforts  a  success.  They're  all  for  you." 

"Stop  that,  mother.     It's — damnable." 

"Well,  it's  the  truth.  And  you're  always  making  a 
great  to-do  about  telling  that,  so  why  shouldn't  I  tell 
the  truth  sometimes.  And  let  me  tell  you  this,  that  in 
my  days  the  girls  were  not  the  raging,  tearing  terma- 
gants they  are  nowadays,  nor  did  they  even  think  the 
horrors  you  do." 

' '  No,  of  course  not.     They  didn  't  think  at  all. ' ' 

"But  you  must  talk  to  Mr.  Bellew  and  get  him  to 
come.  It'll  make  all  the  difference  if  he  does.  A  man 
will  do  a  great  deal  to  please  a  girl  and  you  can  be  very 
persuasive  when  you  like.  That  is  what  is  so  annoying 
about  you,  Molly,  with  a  little  care  and  trouble  you 
might  be  quite  a  persona  grata  in  the  circles — " 

"For  goodness'  sake,  be  quiet,  Mother.  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  I  will  never  worm,  nor  wriggle,  nor 
wheedle — " 

"Nor  do  anything  your  mother  asks.  There's  none 
but  One  above  who  could  say  what  a  trial  you've  been 
to  me." 

Then  she  heard  a  man's  footsteps  coming  up  behind 


SPHINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS        97 

and  turning,   found  Billy  Knyvett  at  her  elbow.     A 
transformation  followed  and  she  cried: 

"Dear  me,  Mr.  Knyvett,  how  perfectly  charming  to 
find  you  bound  for  the  same  place.  We  have  been  hop- 
ing you  would  find  time  to  look  in  on  us,  but  you  are  a 
bad  man.  You  haven't  been  near  us  and  not  a  sign  of 
you  anywhere.  And  we  heard  such  lurid  stories  about 
your  plans.  Something  about  buried  treasure  and  a 
weird  person  who  has  a  secret  hoard  and  is  going  to 
guide  you  to  it.  Do,  do,  I  beg  you,  be  careful  that  he 
doesn't  murder  you.  What  in  the  world  would  Mrs.  Bel- 
lew  do  without  you?  or,  indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
any  of  us?  And  I  hear  that  Mr.  Westlake  is  posi- 
tively giving  up  his  mission  work  to  bucaneer.  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  romantic  and  wicked  in  my  life. 
We've  never  been  able  to  go  down  on  a  Sunday  to  hear 
him  preach  to  his  quaint  crew  of  fishermen,  though  I've 
often  said  to  Molly,  'Positively,  love,  I  must  borrow  the 
housekeeper's  dress  and  go  down  to  hear  poor  dear  Mr. 
Westlake,  or  we  ought  to  have  him  up  to  dinner.'  But 
somehow  time  slipped  by  and  we  did  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  Perhaps  it  was  that  I  am  so  foolishly 
fastidious  about  wearing  other  people 's  clothes.  I  never 
feel  it's  quite  a  clean  thing,  do  you  know,  to  wear  furs, 
for  after  all,  whatever  cleaning  process  they  may  have 
gone  through,  they  were  once  worn  by  an  animal,  prob- 
ably one  of  most  unpleasant  habits.  But  then  I  am  so 
silly  about  things,  Molly  laughs  at  me.  She  is  such  a 
strong-minded  girl,  never  minds  at  hotels  whether  her 
room  is  near  mine  or  not,  though  I  always  insist  on  see- 
ing that  she  locks  her  door.  I  wonder  how  many  times, 
Molly  dear,  your  old  mother  has  pattered  down  the  pas- 
sage— and  they  do  have  such  long  passages  in  hotels  now, 
don't  they? — and  called  to  you:  'Molly,  Molly,  is  your 
door  locked,  my  darling?'  A  mother's  anxiety,  you 
know,  just  a  silly  old  hen  fluttering  over  her  one 
chick." 


98  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

She  ran  down,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  tear  in  her 
eye. 

' '  Huh ! ' '  snorted  Molly ;  Mr.  Kny vett  gave  her  a  warm 
glance  of  fellowship  which  delighted  Mrs.  "Woodruffe's 
unconscious  heart.  It  was  so  charming  to  see  Molly 
sweet — to  the  right  person. 

It  was  with  her  customary  sensation  of  anger  and  hu- 
miliation that  Molly  followed  her  mother  into  the  Here- 
ford drawing-room.  As  a  counterfoil  to  Mrs.  Wood- 
ruffe's  patter,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  adopting  a  languid 
manner  accompanied  by  half -shut  eyes  and  a  gaze  down 
her  nose. 

The  object  of  this  visit  was  immediately  apparent ;  at 
the  Woodruff e  party  Sara's  music,  her  husband's  fame, 
"and  what  a  brilliant  man  he  is,"  Mr.  Hereford's  ur- 
banity, and  Mr.  Kny  vett 's  nimbus  of  position  were  to 
burn  like  sacred  lamps  before  the  shrine  of  the  Wood- 
ruffe  gentility. 

"I  can't  answer  for  my  husband,"  said  Sara,  "for 
he  is  still  away,  but  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  come. ' ' 

"And  to  play!  Dear  Mrs.  Bellew,  we  cannot  possi- 
bly let  you  off.  Such  a  cachet!  It  will  be  like  having 
Paderewski  or  Madame  Schumann  within  our  portals. 
Do,  do,  let  me  entreat  you.  And  if  I  might  suggest  be- 
fore the  lovely  Brahms  you  play  so  exquisitely,  just  some 
Beethoven — perhaps  the  Kreutzer  Sonata." 

She  was  catching  wildly  at  the  tail  of  culture. 

"Or  some  little  trifle  of  that  sort,"  laughed  Molly. 
"I  may  remark  in  passing  that  mother  doesn't  really 
want  you  to  exhaust  yourself  in  going  through  Beethoven. 
She  is  just  throwing  out  suggestions.  The  Kreutzer  and 
perhaps  the  Moonlight  and  of  course  the  Eroica  Sym- 
phony. ' ' 

There  was  a  bitterness  in  her  manner  that  everyone 
felt,  save  old  Vin  Hereford,  who  purred  delightedly. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  delightful  it  is  to  go  back 
to  someone  who  appreciates  the  fine  old  intellectual 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS         99 

tradition  of  the  great  German  age.  But  the  Kreut- 
zer  is  perhaps  just  a  little — eh?  It  has  almost  as 
many  literary  associations  now  as  Tannhauser  itself. 
I  should  suggest  something  without  that  aroma,  that 
savour. ' ' 

Mrs.  Woodruffe's  prominent  eyes  gleamed.  She  re- 
membered now  that  there  was  something  quite  improper 
connected  with  the  Kreutzer  Sonata. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  she  cried.  "Of  course  one 
wouldn't  wish  dear  Mrs.  Bellew  to  play  it.  It  was  only 
the  first  name  that  came  into  my  head.  I  have  really 
such  a  bad  memory  for  names  nowadays  that  I  almost 
fear  I  must  be  suffering  from  Anno  Domini.  Funny, 
isn't  it,  with  not  a  grey  hair  yet  showing?" 

Paralysed,  everyone  watched  her,  save  old  Vin,  who 
was  dozing. 

"The  Kreutzer,"  said  Knyvett,  delivering  himself  of 
a  ghastly  platitude,  "  is  a  fine  sonata. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  I  quite  understand.  But  really,  one  has 
to  think  so  much  nowadays  before  one  opens  one's  lips 
that  a  long  conversation  brings  one  in  danger  of  nervous 
prostration. ' ' 

Anne  laughed.  It  was  such  a  painful  cachinnation 
that  it  attracted  Mrs.  Woodruffe's  special  notice.  She 
felt  vicious. 

' '  And  you,  Miss  Hereford,  with  your  medical  studies ! 
What  dreadful  secrets  you  must  know." 

"Not  anything  nearly  so  dreadful  as  the  things  some 
people  imagine,"  said  Anne  grimly,  feeling  very  much 
as  though  she  wanted  to  stamp  on  a  beetle. 

Molly  glanced  at  her  fiercely.  She,  too,  shared  the 
sentiment.  Only,  after  all,  the  beetle  was  her  mother. 
Nobody  but  herself  must  be  allowed  to  attack. 

"But  you  seem  to  be  able  to  follow  their  imagining 
easily,"  she  snapped. 

' '  Brain  disease, ' '  said  Anne,  "  is  a  part  of  our  course. ' ' 

Sara  interposed  hastily  with  a  question  as  to  date. 


100  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"But  for  my  husband,  I  can't  say.     He  isn't  at  home 
now. ' ' 

"There  he  is,"  said  Molly,  bowing  to  someone  who 
passed  the  window.  She  flushed  and  glared  defiantly  at 
Anne.  They  waited,  but  no  Archer  appeared,  though 
they  heard  his  step  in  the  hall. 

' '  The  rude  man ! ' '  lilted  Mrs.  Woodruffe.  ' '  He 's  not 
coming  in,  though  he  saw  you  in  the  window,  Molly. 
And  last  autumn  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  him. ' ' 

"He's  gone  to  his  study,"  remarked  Anne  maliciously. 

"Ah,  Molly,  go  down  and  rout  him  out.  Make  him 
say  he'll  come  to  us.  I'll  put  'To  meet  the  famous  au- 
thor, Mr.  Archer  Bellew,'  on  the  cards,  if  only  he'll 
come.  So  many  people  want  to  meet  him.  Do  let  her 
go,  Mrs.  Bellew.  He'll  jump  on  her,  but  he'll  forgive. 
He's  really  quite  fond  of  Molly." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  mother." 

"But  you  know  I'm  always  absurd.  It's  my  metier. 
Come,  Molly,  run  away;  there's  a  good  child.  Say 
'  Tally-ho '  when  you  run  him  to  earth. ' ' 

"I'll  show  you  the  way,"  said  Anne  maliciously. 

Outside  the  door,  the  two  girls  stood  with  pulses 
beating  and  feet  tapping.  Molly  plunged  her  hands 
deep  in  her  flat  muff  with  a  mocking  moue  under  her 
bell-shaped  hat  of  shining  black  satin. 

"You  need  not  show  me,"  she  said  haughtily;  "I  know 
Mr.  Bellew 's  study  quite  well.  I've  no  need  whatever 
of  a  chaperone.  And  you're  making  a  great  mistake  in 
being  rude  to  Us." 

Anne  recognised  the  greatness  of  the  sacrifice  implied 
in  that  "Us,"  in  that  identification  of  the  girl  with  her 
mother.  She  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  herself. 

"  I  'm  sorry, ' '  she  said  humbly ;  "  I  Ve  been  a  beast. ' ' 

"Oh,"  cried  Molly,  beginning  to  tremble,  "I  feel 
wild,  desperate.  I  don't  mind  what  I  do  with  myself. 
I  always  say  I  never  will  come  home  again.  It  all  gets 
on  my  nerves  so  and  I  behave  badly  and  feel  so  mean, 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       101 

so  dirty,  to  think  of  what  I've  said.  And  yet  you  can't 
cut  yourself  quite  adrift  from  where  you  started,  can 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Anne,  "and  somehow  or  other  I  suppose 
we  've  earned  our  parents. ' ' 

''Why  can't  we  humans  be  like  that?"  cried  Molly, 
as  they  stood  in  the  window  watching  the  sunlight  that 
flashed  on  the  sheen  of  budding  trees.  "We're  just 
the  only  ugly  things  in  the  world.  And  I  do  so  long  for 
— something  different.  You  know  how  you  feel  when 
you've  read  a  wonderful  story  or  some  splendid  line  of 
verse.  You  want  it  to  be  all  like  that.  And  then  you 
come  back  to  your  everyday  self.  And  it's  all  gone.  It 
was  only  a  dream." 

"Beauty  is  like  joy,"  said  Anne,  "a  thing  just  tucked 
away,  a  secret  you  look  at  every  now  and  then  when 
you're  busiest.  Ten  days  hence  you're  going  to  see 
someone;  or  you've  just  done  a  good  stroke  of  work. 
Then  your  heart  sings.  That's  how  it  is." 

"Just  a  gleam,"  said  Molly. 

"Just  a  gleam,  something  come  over  the  border  from 
a  wonderful  world  where  we  really  belong  perhaps. 
Who  knows?" 

Like  a  child  Molly  put  up  her  face. 

"We'll  be  friends,"  asked  she,  "whatever  I  do?" 

"Whatever  you  do,"  laughed  Anne  in  her  bustling 
way.  "I  don't  give  up  my  friends  for  any  sort  of  bad- 
ness. That's  not  me.  It's  for  better,  for  worse,  that  I 
take  'em.  But  I  'm  truly  sorry  I  was  so  rude  just  now. ' ' 

"Oh,  never  mind.  It's  the  way  decent  people  must 
feel  about  us.  But  I  won't  go  in  and  see  Mr.  Bellew. 
You  go  and  I'll  wait  here  for  you." 

"There's  no  harm  in  your  going,  my  dear.  It  would 
please  your  mother  so  much  to  have  him  and  there's  no 
reason  whatever  why  he  shouldn't,  for  once  in  his  life, 
do  a  kindness  for  somebody. ' ' 

Molly  smiled  wanly  and  then  went  undulating  down 


102  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

the  passage  to  the  study,  to  emerge  ten  minutes  later, 
bright-eyed,  revivified.  Precisely  the  effect  had  been 
wrought  on  her  that  is  worked  on  a  man  by  dinner  and 
wine.  Between  her  and  the  fret  of  existence  had 
come  a  pleasant  illusion  of  well-being.  And  Archer 
Bellew  would  be  at  the  party;  that  at  any  rate  was 
assured. 

Meanwhile  in  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Woodruffe  had 
been  trying  to  bring  off  a  coup  on  her  own  account. 
Heaven  knows  what  visions  crowded  her  mind  of  great 
ladies  with  negro  slaves  behind  them  bearing  prayer- 
books,  but  she  craved  a  favour  of  Mr.  Knyvett — the  serv- 
ices of  Cornelius  to  assist,  at  any  rate  by  his  presence, 
at  her  supper.  Mrs.  Woodruffe  was  one  of  the  women 
who  cannot  have  a  neighbour  of  any  sort  without  bor- 
rowing teacups  or  clothes-brushes. 

' '  So  chic ! ' '  exclaimed  she,  ' '  a  gigantic  African  by  the 
sideboard.  It  will  create  quite  a  sensation  and  he  has 
such  a  pleasant  smile.  Somehow  or  other,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  why,  but  it  always  reminds  me  of  what  the 
whiting  said  to  the  snail.  You  will  be  good,  Mr.  Kny- 
vett, and  lend  me  Cornelius  ? ' ' 

She  leant  forward,  hands  outstretched. 

Mr.  Hereford  had  caught  the  name.  Rousing  him- 
self from  his  half  doze,  he  began  to  preach : — 

"Cornelius,  my  dear  lady,"  said  he,  "has  a  great  task 
to  perform.  Our  racial  efficiency  greatly  needs  the  as- 
sistance of  the  full-blooded  African  strain.  To  say  noth- 
ing of  any  other  matter,  it  would  be  most  beneficial  to 
English  literature  to  infuse  into  it  something  more  exotic. 
I  trust,"  he  purred,  turning  to  Billy,  "that  he's  doing 
his  duty  manfully  while  he's  in  port.  I  should  let  him 
ashore  as  often  as  possible." 

Horror  stalked  among  the  company  as  a  pestilence  that 
walketh  at  noonday.  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  her  face  rigid, 
sat  wondering  wThat  barbaric  horror  she  was  going  to 
introduce  into  her  fashionable  sheepfold.  Anne  laughed 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       103 

outright.  Only  Sara  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to 
murmur : 

"Cornelius'  offspring  aren't  likely  to  be  literary." 

Mr.  Hereford  felt  contradicted. 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,  Sara,"  snapped  he.  "Into  what 
strange  channels  does  not  race  flow?  And  I've  always 
noticed  that  a  full-blooded  strain  means  literary  genius 
in  a  nation.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the  Tartar  nose  of 
the  Russians — and  the  Tartar  strength  in  their  books. 
And  why  is  it  that  the  Frenchman  is  the  only  Western 
that  can  paint  the  East?  Don't  tell  me  it's  Latin. 
It 's  the  memory  of  hot  sands,  of  hotter  lusts. ' ' 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  with  a  rattling  of  muff  chains  and 
bangles  protested  and  prepared  to  create  a  bustle.  But 
everybody  else  sat  spellbound. 

"For  nobody  has  yet  realised,"  he  continued,  "the  in- 
fluence of  the  negro  strain  in  French  blood.  So  let  Cor- 
nelius go  ashore.  Ages  hence  some  romance  may  owe 
its  power  to  him." 

For  once  the  rustling  newness  of  Mrs.  Woodruff e's 
garments  was  more  comforting  than  felt  slippers  to  an 
invalid's  ear.  In  the  bustle  of  her  departure  was  ef- 
faced the  phantom  of  old  Hereford's  eugenic  specula- 
tions. When  at  last  the  door  closed  behind  her : — 

"Oh,  Lord,"  cried  Anne,  sitting  on  the  window-seat 
preparatory  to  a  vault  over  it  on  to  the  terrace,  "if  we 
weren't  up  in  the  world,  would  she  ever  put  her  nose 
inside  this  house  again  ?  Dear  old  Cornelius,  I  positively 
love  him.  And  his  meringues  are  worth  all  the  'Voy- 
ages en  Orient'  of  his  potential  offspring  over  and  over 
again. ' ' 

Then  she  vanished  into  the  garden  and  Sara  went 
down  the  hall  to  her  husband's  study. 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  tapping  medi- 
tatively on  the  book  shelves.  His  were  the  nervous,  long- 
fingered  hands  that  play  incessantly  with  something,  from 
bread-pills  on  the  dinner-table  to  cigarettes  and  watch- 


104  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

chain.  A  set  of  small  brown  books  faced  him,  and  taking 
one  down  he  began  to  turn  over  the  pages.  Like  all  read- 
ers he  knew  instinctively  on  which  side  of  the  page  was 
the  quotation  he  wanted : — 

' '  But  only  that  is  strong  within  us  which  remains  even 
for  ourselves  but  a  half -suspected  secret." 

And  it  is  precisely  that  half-suspected  secret  which 
the  novelist  reveals  to  the  world.  For  when  it  comes  to 
revelation,  the  light  that  beats  upon  a  throne  is  nothing 
compared  to  the  light  that  radiates  from  a  printed  page. 
Of  this  Archer  Bellew  had  become  aware  as  he  turned 
over  the  press-cuttings  that  awaited  him.  His  cigarette 
puffed  its  life  away  like  grass  withering  in  a  hot  oven. 

Then  he  turned  and  saw  his  wife ;  his  pointed  Mephis- 
tophelian  eyebrows  had  a  way  of  running  upwards  to- 
wards his  temples  in  a  habit  that  had  driven  deep  hori- 
zontal wrinkles  into  his  forehead.  It  gave  him  a  scared 
expression  that  suggested  a  startled  woodland  thing ;  nor 
was  the  impression  contradicted  by  the  sideways  poise  of 
an  oval  head  on  a  long  neck. 

"And  so  there  you  are,"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do 
you  think  of  these  ? ' '  He  nodded  towards  the  little  pile 
of  cuttings  on  the  writing-desk.  "Damned  impudence, 
I  call  it." 

' '  Did  you  expect  anything  else  ? "  In  the  shrug  of  her 
shoulders  there  was  a  haughtiness  that  she  reserved  for 
her  husband. 

"Well,  now,  that's  a  nice  wifely  thing  to  say!" 

"But  if  you  will  fly  in  the  face  of  all  the  conventions, 
of  all  the  prejudices." 

"I  painted  the  picture  of  a  woman,  a  real  woman, 
that's  all.  A  woman  full  of  revolt,  of  the  intention  to 
kick  herself  free  of  every  idea  that  keeps  women  patient 
and  humble. ' ' 

"Just  so.  But  you  see  the  reviewers,  like  most  other 
people,  prefer  women  to  be  humble  and  patient.  So  of 
course  they  rage  and  call  it  wicked." 


SPHINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       105 

"It's  studied  from  life,"  he  said  maliciously,  "from 
a  close,  intimate  study,  in  fact." 

"So  I  thought,"  she  answered  quietly.  If  she  felt 
angry,  she  showed  no  faintest  sign  of  it.  But,  as  always 
when  these  two  were  together,  the  mental  temperature 
of  the  room  was  distinctly  warm. 

"From  Anne,  perhaps?"  he  sneered.  "She's  rather 
of  that  type,  the  revolting. ' ' 

"Not  in  the  least." 

In  attacking  Anne  he  had  approached  a  subject  on 
which  she  could  not  keep  calm. 

"Anne  is  revolting  from  the  very  thing  your  heroine 
delights  in.  Anne  wants  to  work,  to  be  recognised  as 
valuable  for  something  else  than  merely  to  please  men. 
Your  woman  wants  to  live  openly,  instead  of  secretly, 
just  for  nothing  else: — to  please  herself  first  by  pleas- 
ing men.  Anne  wants  to  put  all  that  into  the  back- 
ground. There  are  thousands  like  Anne  and  a  mere 
handful  like  your  woman,  a  handful  who  will  try  to 
creep  in  under  Anne's  banner.  Anne  is  austere; 
your  woman  is  a  wanton,  aping  the  freedom  of  aus- 
terity. That's  why  your  book  is  such  a  lie,  for  it's 
taken  as  typical. ' ' 

"You  say  it's  drawn  from  life.  From  whom?"  he 
asked  angrily. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  want  to?" 

She  hesitated,  gazing  straight  at  him,  for  she  was  an 
extremely  truthful  woman,  truthful  to  a  hair.  And  all 
the  while  he  was  irritably  pressing  on  the  nerve  that 
hurt  him,  for  he  was  very  sensitive  to  blame,  very  much 
led  by  his  pleasure  in  other  people 's  approbation  of  him. 
Moreover,  he  resented  strongly  any  attitude  of  criticism 
in  the  women  that  belonged  to  him.  It  was  that  which 
had  always  put  him  wrong  with  Sara,  who  unconsciously 
judged  and  weighed  as  carefully  as  an  analytical  chemist. 

"One  part  of  you  wants  to  know  and  the  other  fears; 


106  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

that's  about  it,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  impatiently  rolling  a 
cigarette  with  fingers  that  spilt  the  tobacco. 

"Yes,"  he  added  deliberately,  "it  was  drawn  from 
life." 

She  quivered  as  though  he  had  struck  her,  not  at  the 
words  so  much  as  at  the  implication  involved  in  them. 
He  was  satisfied  for  a  second,  and  then  repentant.  Ris- 
ing, he  put  a  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sara,  I'm  sorry.  But  you're  not  very 
human,  are  you  ? ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  lips  trembling. 

"I  don't  know,  Archer,  but  I  seem  to  be  like  someone 
passing  his  hand  over  a  wall  to  find  a  hidden  spring. ' ' 

"To  let  yourself  out  by?" 

"I  don't  understand  myself  one  bit,"  she  cried. 

"Look  at  me,  Sara,"  he  said,  dropping  his  hands 
heavily  on  her  shoulders. 

He  had  bright,  compelling  eyes.  She  felt  as  though 
they  read  her  through  and  through  and  longed  to  ask 
him  what  he  found  there,  but  dared  not. 

"The  sleeping  beauty,"  he  remarked,  laughing  quite 
kindly.  ' '  How  long  have  we  been  married,  child  ? ' ' 

"Ten  years  next  May,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"Is  it  so  long?     I  didn't  realise  that." 

Then  they  sat  on  in  a  silence  that  grew  oppressive. 
It  was  always  the  same.  Talk  seemed  to  dry  up,  ideas 
to  wither  when  they  were  together.  Sara  was  longing 
to  get  herself  out  of  the  room  and  Archer  to  see  her  go, 
but  neither  knew  how  to  achieve  the  move.  At  last  she 
stirred  restlessly  and  Archer  yawned. 

"Well,  I  must  get  to  my  letters." 

"And  that's  the  sort  of  reception  I  come  home  to  every 
time, ' '  he  said  aloud,  as  he  swung  himself  into  his  swivel 
writing-chair.  "No  wonder  the  old  saints  and  monks 
lived  to  a  ripe  old  age  with  no  women  to  plague  'em. 
The  Lords  of  Misrule,  that's  what  women  are — sirens, 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       107 

termagants,  shrews  or  schemers,  the  whole  boiling  of 
'em." 

A  strong  lover  of  order,  his  household  annoyed  him, 
for  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  mismated  man  and  he  hated 
mismating  as  cordially  as  ever  old  Vin  Hereford  hated 
two  colours  that  swore.  And  it  was  not  only  his  per- 
sonal relationship  with  Sara;  it  was  the  attitude  of  the 
house  towards  him  that  stimulated  every  nerve  of  irri- 
tation in  him  whenever  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  it. 
Craneham  was  to  him  the  hall  of  Rhadamanthus,  where 
everybody  sat  in  judgment,  from  Elizabeth  upwards. 

Born  in  the  Far  West,  in  that  Penwith  of  the  Cornish- 
men  that  breeds  a  stock  peculiarly  racial  and  vivid,  his 
earliest  memories  were  of  the  land  of  the  moving  mists 
that,  sea-born,  blot  out  cornland  and  moor  even  in  the 
height  of  summer  as  though  under  the  smeary  fingers  of 
a  giant.  At  the  age  when  nature  is  plastic  to  all  impres- 
sions he  had  lived  in  the  back  rooms  of  a  small  grocer's 
shop  where  trade  names  of  soaps  and  candles,  of  marma- 
lades and  blackings,  took  the  place  of  the  sines  and  co- 
shies,  the  Greek  verbs  and  Latin  verse  of  better-born 
boys.  Yet  he  had  found  his  ecstasy  in  the  hymn-singing 
of  white-faced,  stunted  miners  whose  faith  poised  itself 
on  a  tight-rope  over  the  fires  of  the  Pit. 

In  a  wayside  chapel,  like  a  mighty  wind,  there  had 
come  upon  him  a  sense  of  his  own  powers  as  he  rose  and 
bore  testimony,  preaching  the  message  "repent  ye." 
For  his  power  was  emotional  more  than  mental,  calling 
for  the  stimulus  of  the  quickened  nerve  that  wakes  best 
under  the  magnetic  appeal  of  the  crowd;  in  a  word,  he 
was  speaker,  rather  than  writer.  He  awoke  on  a  lark- 
singing  sunny  morning  amid  the  smell  of  varnish  and 
broadcloth,  and  the  most  joyful  thought  that  came  to 
him  was  the  idea  of  that  cleansing  hell  of  remorse  which 
awaits  the  sinner. 

Other  powers  awoke  rapidly;  the  swing  of  a  verse 


108  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

came  with  the  roar  of  the  waves  on  the  cliff;  a  curious 
ancestral  story — memory,  one  had  almost  called  it — was 
recalled  in  simple,  primitive  words.  Finally,  his  de- 
scriptive articles  attracted  notice  and  he  walked  the 
streets  of  St.  Just  with,  as  he  fancied,  the  neighbours' 
eyes  glued  to  his  back.  The  first  book  was  full,  as  first 
books  often  are,  of  all  the  joys  that  ever  he  had  known ; 
no  wonder  it  was  a  success. 

Then  he  met  Vin  Hereford  at  a  public  literary  din- 
ner. It  was  a  time  when  the  star  of  simplicity  was  in 
the  ascendant  in  Hereford's  horoscope,  when  a  dinner 
of  herbs  was  to  be  preferred  to  the  richest  slice  of  Stras- 
bourg pate.  He  therefore  invited  Bellew  to  his  house, 
rejoicing  in  the  memory  of  the  back  shop  and  finding  a 
subtle  attraction  in  the  memory  of  Cheddar  and  ' '  Rising 
Sun,"  of  "Nugget"  blacking  and  "England's  Glory" 
matches.  Sara  was  even  carried  off  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  shrine  of  genius,  wherein,  in  fact,  father  and  daugh- 
ter joyfully  bought  mixed  biscuits. 

Flattered,  intoxicated,  dazzled  by  the  notice  of  a  man 
whose  house  in  those  days  was  haunted  by  well-known 
people,  Bellew  only  saw  Sara's  eyes  through  a  haze  of 
wonder  and  delight.  Old  landmarks  disappeared  be- 
neath the  fog ;  all  obligations  were  forgotten,  thrust  away 
down  beneath  the  surface  along  with  other  Bohemian 
memories.  Marriage  with  Sara  appeared  like  an  acco- 
lade given  to  a  knight,  an  accolade  that  not  only  made 
him  free  of  the  world  of  gentlehood,  but  that  turned  the 
key  on  the  baser  side  of  his  fire-hot  nature. 

In  one  kind  of  power  the  thoughts,  the  very  bodily 
organs,  glow  with  a  stormy  life  that  often  seems  demoniac 
to  calmer  natures.  And  when  life  raged  in  Archer  Bel- 
lew  he  wavered  in  its  grip  like  a  flame  in  the  wind.  But 
when  the  fit  was  over,  there  was  always  the  same  deep 
horror  of  the  sin,  a  horror  that  went  down  to  join  other 
bitter  memories.  For  to  Archer  Bellew  it  was  sin,  this 
incessant  waxing  and  waning  of  the  moon  of  his  de- 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       109 

sires;  he  compounded  with  no  flaws  by  talking  modern 
sophistry.  At  bottom  he  always  remained  the  Cornish- 
man  who  had  preached  hell  in  a  wayside  chapel.  Yet  no 
sense  of  sin  could  throw  salt  on  the  flame  of  his  craving, 
whether  for  woman  or  ideas. 

Only  Vin  Hereford  had  succeeded  in  choking  both  de- 
sire and  repentance  with  damp  ash.  For  Chrysostom, 
with  his  specious  pleasure-loving  talk,  had  wrapped  his 
son-in-law  in  literary  languor,  imbuing  him,  where  his 
own  actions  were  concerned,  with  philosophic  irony.  The 
moral  probe  of  northern  morality  was  a  thing  to  scorn, 
said  the  old  Hedonist,  for  in  an  artist  lawlessness  was 
salt  and  savour  to  the  blood.  It  was  d'Annunzio,  and 
not  B jornson  or  Tolstoi,  who  presided  in  Vin  Hereford 's 
literary  hierarchy. 

The  instinct  of  Elizabeth  was  right;  the  books  of  the 
old  Monsieur  had  much  to  answer  for. 

Yet  Bellew  could  not  entirely  escape  either  from  his 
up-bringing  or  from  that  passionate  craving  for  a  better 
way  of  life  that  dances  like  an  ignis  fatuus  before  the 
modern  world.  Full  as  he  was  of  the  contrast  between 
what  life  is  and  what  it  might  be,  he  studied  each  human 
tangle  as  minutely  as  though  it  were  a  section  in  a 
microscope.  Whereby,  of  course,  he  dealt  in  false  val- 
ues, since  all  real  stories  are  like  figures  in  a  tapestry, 
half-meaningless  without  their  background. 

Notwithstanding  his  irregularities,  in  his  own  life  he 
remained  a  Puritan  by  instinct.  For  just  as  he  always 
found  it  impossible  to  work  in  a  dusty,  untidy  room, 
with  one  side  of  his  nature  he  hated  the  moral  dust  that 
had  gathered  over  his  days.  To-night,  as  he  had  done 
hundreds  of  times  before,  he  went  upstairs,  bathed  from 
head  to  foot,  and  put  on  entirely  fresh  garments  in  the 
attempt  to  feel  clean. 

His  ideal  was  straight,  four-square  action ;  clean  living 
and  intense  personal  probity.  Never  an  hour  wasted, 
never  a  thought  astray. 


110  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

But  after  dinner  the  front  door  banged  behind  him. 
He  had  gone  out,  since  a  pleasant  sense  of  an  idyll  to  be 
continued  was  dancing  in  front  of  his  nose. 

Late  that  night  Mrs.  Woodruffe  knocked  smartly  at  her 
daughter's  door;  being  a  woman  who  economised  behind 
the  scenes,  she  was  in  a  maize-coloured  dressing-gown  that 
stood  distinctly  in  need  of  soap  and  water. 

"Your  waist  is  positively  huge,"  grumbled  she,  sink- 
ing into  a  rocking  chair  and  covering  her  eyes  to  shield 
them  from  the  overhead  electric  light  that  shone  like  a 
beacon  across  the  garden.  "You  might  draw  your  cor- 
sets in  a  good  two  inches  more  without  hurting  yourself 
in  the  least.  Why,  when  I  was  your  age  a  man  could 
have  spanned  my  waist  with  his  two  hands." 

When  specially  moved,  Mrs.  Woodruffe  always  went 
for  her  opponent's  waist;  it  was  her  method  of  hitting 
below  the  belt. 

"I  don't  invite  gymnastic  feats  of  that  kind,  mother. 
Nowadays  we  leave  that  kind  of  thing  to  barmaids. ' ' 

"You're  a  bad  girl,  Molly.  You  should  ask  God  to 
change  your  heart.  But  Stephen  Anerley's  coming 
down.  He  '11  be  here  in  time  for  the  party. ' ' 

"And  I  specially  didn't  want  him,"  exclaimed  Molly, 
tapping  the  floor  angrily. 

"And  I  specially  did,"  retorted  her  mother.  "But 
mind  you  have  a  clear  idea  in  your  head  what  you're 
going  to  do.  There  '11  be  Knyvett  and  Anerley,  and  that 
writing  fellow  will  do  for  a  decoy.  And  if  you  don't 
catch  one  or  other  of  the  two,  you  must  be  an  absolute 
fool.  Only,  for  goodness'  sake,  whatever  you  do,  don't 
overdo  your  part." 

Much  the  same  horror  turned  the  girl  dumb  as  when 
one  sees  some  travesty  of  the  human  in  a  mouthing  idiot. 
Then  she  opened  the  door  and,  standing  with  her  fingers 
on  the  handle,  said  quietly: 

"Please  go,  Mother.  Else  I  shall  say  something  that 
had  better  not  be  said." 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       111 

And  obeying  the  look  in  the  girl's  face,  her  mother 
went.  She  always  yielded  the  field  at  a  look  of  white- 
hot  anger. 

"And  that's  the  sort  of  thing  I've  had  to  bear  all  my 
life,"  cried  Molly,  flinging  herself  across  the  writing- 
table  by  the  window. 

Yet  there  was  a  kind  of  comfort  in  this  sordid  atmos- 
phere, for  after  all  it  offered  some  excuse.  Seen  in  this 
light  it  seemed  very  much  like  the  faintness  which  au- 
thorises dram-drinking.  From  excuse-finding  the  next 
step  was  self-glorification;  Molly  took  it,  until  she  had 
persuaded  herself  that  to  coquette  with  Bellew  was  a 
fine  thing,  since  so  to  mock  the  proprieties  was  to  defy  the 
smug  respectability,  the  innate  rottenness  of  her  mother 's 
code.  A  small  person,  ill-armed  and  weak,  she,  Molly 
Woodruffe,  went  forth  to  meet  a  dragon  belching  flame, 
the  Apollyon,  to  wit,  of  hypocrisy. 

Then  she  was  ashamed,  owning  a  more  honest  impulse, 
for  was  she  not  after  all  one  of  the  great  army  of  women 
who  are  pledged  to  the  day  of  better  things  for  their 
sex?  The  little  doctor,  Anne  Hereford,  had  quaint  mo- 
ments of  exaltation;  in  one  she  had  said,  almost  shame- 
faced, yet  persisting :  "Liberty  is  coming  for  us  women, 
but  we  Ve  got  to  prove  we  're  worthy  of  it.  We  're  going 
everywhere,  free  women  after  centuries  of  servitude. 
But  we're  going  into  such  dark  places  that  we  must  be 
sure  always  to  take  our  own  light  with  us." 

Conscience-stricken,  Molly  shrank  back  on  herself,  for 
she  always  acknowledged  the  spell  of  the  wind  as  it  blew 
from  every  quarter. 

The  stupidity  of  her  mother's  ideas  had  bred  in  her 
an  immense  admiration  for  great  men,  meaning  by  that 
men  of  paragraphs,  gossip,  and  photographs.  Authors, 
actors,  publishers,  these  breathed,  for  her,  the  air  of  the 
heights.  Politicians,  however,  were  nothing  accounted 
of,  for  she  had  seen  the  strings  that  pulled  them.  Had 
she  been  a  servant  girl  she  would  have  devoured  novel- 


112  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

ettes ;  being  of  another  class,  she  fell  a  victim  to  the  curi- 
ous subterranean  underflow  of  sentimentality  which  in 
these  days  reveals  itself  in  the  romantic  biographies  that 
flood  the  book  market.  For  our  novelists  may  reduce  life 
and  love  to  the  bare  bones,  picking  every  shred  of  ro- 
mance from  the  carcase,  but  our  memoir  writers  only  pad 
it  the  more  thickly  with  succulence  of  sentiment.  Vive 
I 'amour,  cry  the  chroniclers  of  the  past,  while  the  his- 
torians of  the  present  are  declaring  it  to  be  dead  and 
buried — save  as  a  device  of  nature.  Hence  the  bones  of 
de  Musset,  of  Chateaubriand  filled  the  airy  chambers 
of  Molly's  head,  till  she  saw  herself  as  a  grande 
amoureuse,  a  daughter  of  man  visited  by  some  Son  of 
the  Morning. 

Now  the  only  Son  of  the  Morning  with  whom  she  had 
any  personal  acquaintance  was  Archer  Bellew.  And  that 
would  mean  a  short  bliss,  a  quick  extinction,  and  for 
afterwards,  a  memory.  She  was  quite  clear  as  to  this, 
for  though  she  might  don  the  cap  and  bells  of  a  fool,  she 
would  wear  it  but  as  livery. 

Stephen  Anerley  meant  something  quite  different.  It 
would  be  Stephen  all  through,  pink-faced  Stephen,  rosy 
in  the  gills,  with  a  tall  hat  on  Sunday  and  a  perfectly 
implacable  intention  of  arranging  his  life  to  his  liking 
and  not  to  hers.  After  five  years  of  treading  the  nar- 
row path  with  him  she  would  only  be  "  Anerley 's  wife," 
with  for  object,  his  elevation  up  the  rungs  of  the  ladder 
that  led  to  an  income  in  four  figures;  with  for  joy,  his 
children ;  with  for  duties,  his  Saturday  dinners  to  fellow- 
journalists,  his  digestion,  his  clothes,  even  his  blue  pots. 
All  the  world  of  struggle  and  zest,  of  fighting  for  her 
own  hand  would  be  gone ;  it  would  be  all  ' '  Stephenised ' ' 
and  she  a  secondary  figure. 

Now  she  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  had  a  genius  for 
the  secondary.  Yet  after  all,  that  way  came  the  sound 
of  children's  voices.  She  could  hear  them  in  the  fire- 
light, while  they  all  waited  for  the  sound  of  Stephen's 


SPRINGES  TO  CATCH  WOODCOCKS       113 

key  in  the  lock — to  set  things  moving  again.  For  to  that 
she  would  have  come  by  then. 

But  there  was  another  alternative — to  go  on  preparing 
speeches  for  which  others  gained  the  kudos.  Still  sec- 
ondary, it  seemed — and  not  quite  so  sweet.  The  lusty 
patter  of  bare  fat  feet,  feet  that  curled  in  the  palm  of 
the  hand;  was  a  pleasant  undertone  to  one 's  thoughts  in 
comparison.  And  Stephen  Anerley  would  be  here  in 
time  for  the  party. 

Just  at  that  moment  there  came  from  below  three  notes 
whistled  softly  in  a  minor  cadence.  Pressing  her  face 
closer  on  her  arms,  Molly  waited  and  lay  still.  The  notes 
were  repeated,  but  she  never  moved.  Then  she  heard 
the  sound  of  receding  footsteps  and  the  whistle  died 
away. 

For  after  all,  to  burn  in  the  quick  flame,  to  serve  by 
waiting,  to  drive  a  flying  pen,  were  all  secondary.  Nor 
did  any  of  them  appear  particularly  sweet  at  the  present 
moment.  To  lie  -still  was  easier. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CAP  AND   BELLS:   IN   THIS    MOLLY   WOODRUPFE  TANGLES  A 
SKEIN   AND  ANNE   HEREFORD   PLAITS  A   THREAD 

SARA  began  to  play,  at  first  automatically,  and  then, 
like  a  rocky  pool  that  is  filled  when  the  high  tide 
comes  in,  struck  at  last  on  the  springs  of  passion  hidden 
within.  By  this  time  the  rooms  were  entirely  silent,  for 
most  of  the  folks  had  gone  off  into  that  far  country  where 
each  man  meets  his  heart's  desire,  and  those  who  could 
not  go  sat  silent,  for  the  look  they  saw  on  the  travellers ' 
faces. 

The  player  could  look  from  room  to  room  across  the 
bungalow  at  her  audience  who  sat  behind  looped-back 
curtains  at  different  distances  from  the  grand  piano. 
Through  the  open  windows  sounded  the  swaying  of  the 
trees  and  the  hiss  of  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs 
on  which  the  Woodruffes'  house  was  built.  Against  the 
black  dome  of  night  the  whole  house  blazed  with  lights 
and  echoed  with  voices. 

On  the  terrace  outside  paced  Molly  Woodruffe,  the 
long,  wing-like  drapery  of  her  sleeves  stirring  slightly  as 
she  moved.  Sara  noticed  with  a  half  smile  the  two  men 
who  walked  on  each  side  of  the  girl  and  when  the  three 
paused  by  the  window  she  could  plainly  distinguish  the 
long  narrow  face  and  aquiline  nose  of  Stephen  Anerley. 
There  was  something  almost  sinister  in  the  close-set,  pro- 
jecting eyes  that  was  contradicted  by  the  upward  curving 
corners  of  the  lips  where,  although  he  was  not  yet  five- 
and-twenty,  the  lines  were  already  tightening  around  the 
mouth.  His  air  was  extremely  self-confident,  for  he  had 
never  been  beaten  yet,  nor  did  he  even  anticipate  the 

114 


CAP  AND  BELLS  115 

possibility  of  catching  a  fall;  a  characteristic  that,  al- 
though engaging  enough  in  youth,  is  not  calculated  to 
make  a  man  popular  in  age.  From  the  crispy  blackness 
of  his  hair,  his  swarthy  skin  and  masterful,  yet  shifty 
glance,  one  would  have  guessed  him  to  be  of  southern 
extraction.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  "Welshman,  though  not 
in  the  least  of  the  same  type  of  Celt  as  Archer  Bellew, 
who  walked  on  Molly 's  other  side. 

With  the  first  bars  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata,  Sara  began 
to  realise  that  she  was  awaking,  for  exactly  the  same 
sense  was  upon  her  as  when  a  sleeper  realises  that  over 
on  the  other  side  he  has  learnt  something  intuitively  and 
beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt.  As  yet,  she  could  not 
say  exactly  to  what  she  had  awakened,  but  that  the  knowl- 
edge was  even  now  within  her  she  felt  absolutely  certain. 
All  these  years  she  had  seen  things  without  understand- 
ing; now  at  last  she  was  to  see  through  them.  She  felt 
herself  at  the  centre  of  a  web  of  folly,  mostly,  it  is  true, 
of  other  people's  weaving.  By  a  leap  of  memory,  her 
mind  flew  to  Archer 's  old  mother ;  she  could  see  her  now, 
a  homely  aproned  figure  like  a  fat  tun,  standing  in  the 
doorway  of  her  shop  as  she  sheltered  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  for  she  was  somewhat  of  a  cave-dweller  in 
habit. 

"Ginger's  hot  in  the  mouth  with  'en,"  she  had  said 
of  her  son.  "Every  now  and  then  there's  something 
seems  to  shake  'en  like  a  terrier  with  a  rat,  be  it  maid 
or  be  it  hell-fire  and  brimstone.  And  'tis  a  toss-up  which 
'twill  be  for  the  moment.  Then  a  forgets,  the  fire  dies 
down  and  he's  sleepy.  No  need  for  herby  tea  to  make 
'en  quiet  then." 

His  method  of  work  was  like  that,  too ;  no  regular  three 
hours  a  day  for  him,  but  months  of  mooning,  of  absolute 
blankness,  and  then  a  fever  till,  with  finger  nails  bitten 
to  the  quick  and  eyes  deep-sunk  with  fatigue,  he  emerged, 
wrote  Finis,  and  could  scarcely  be  prevailed  upon  to  cor- 
rect his  proofs.  So  it  was  in  his  relations  with  women ; 


116  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

each  one  was  an  instrument  on  which  he  played  a  tune, 
played  it  once  and  then  had  done  with  the  instrument, 
the  testing  of  whose  timbre  had  been  the  main  interest 
of  his  effort.  Ultimately  each  served  but  the  purposes 
of  his  art  by  adding  another  portrait  to  his  gallery  of 
women. 

Now  his  wife  was,  for  the  first  time,  to  watch  the 
actual  process,  which  made  all  the  difference  in  the  world. 
Yet  for  the  moment,  under  the  influence  of  her  music, 
she  seemed  to  have  risen  above  the  web  of  entangling  cir- 
cumstance; only  inward  laughter  seized  her  at  the  stu- 
pidity of  it  all.  Here  was  Anne  getting  thin-faced  and 
worried,  here  was  Billy  Knyvett  half  on  the  Pendragon 
and  half  off  it,  here  was  Molly  of  the  winged  drapery 
rushing  towards  a  mockery  of  love.  Soon  probably 
Archer  himself  would  creep  back  once  again,  with  an- 
other shred  of  his  manliness  gone  and  with  another  vol- 
ume with  his  name  on  its  cover  to  add  to  the  books  she 
hated  so.  It  was  strange  to  think  that  this  coil  should 
have  arisen  from  the  fact  that  Vin  Hereford  regarded  the 
child  he  had  begotten  as  intended  by  Providence  to  act 
as  the  corner  stone  of  his  comfort. 

Meanwhile  on  the  terrace  outside  Molly  was  unhappy 
and  dissatisfied,  for  Archer  Bellew  and  Stephen  Anerley 
appeared  not  ill  friends  and  she  had  been  secretly  antici- 
pating the  joy  of  watching  their  rivalry.  Yet,  although 
she  was  unaware  of  the  fact,  they  were  approaching  cer- 
tain conversational  rapids  in  which  Bellew 's  contempt 
would  assuredly  appear.  For  Anerley  was  a  journalist 
by  profession  and  to  Bellew  this  was  the  same  as  though 
one  had  said :  ' '  Now  Barabbas  was  a  robber. ' '  To  him 
all  journalists  and  teachers  lived  on  the  spoil  of  other 
men's  brains  and  in  a  world  wherein  men  are  divided 
most  rationally  into  voices  and  echoes,  they  were  but 
echoes.  Gradually,  therefore,  the  older  man  began  to 
emerge  as  the  judge,  the  appraiser,  of  the  younger  one, 
carrying  Molly  with  him  into  the  seat  of  the  scornful, 


CAP  AND  BELLS  117 

for  she  instinctively  ranged  herself  on  the  side  of  the 
stronger. 

Bellew  had  just  quoted  with  delight  from  an  Arabian 
manuscript  he  had  been  reading:  "Night  was  drawing 
apace  and  had  already  half-wrapped  the  earth  with  her 
dark,  star-studded  mantle. ' ' 

"There,"  continued  he,  "you  have  it  in  a  phrase,  the 
solemn  majesty  of  the  on-coming  of  night,  not  described, 
but  suggested.  The  English  have  lost  the  art  of  writing 
like  that  because  they're  afraid  of  anything  more  emo- 
tional than  a  tea-party.  "We  shall  soon  have  no  feelings 
at  all,  we  're  so  afraid  of  showing  those  we  have. ' ' 

"Under  our  quiet  exterior  we  feel  more  deeply  than 
mercurial  nations,"  said  Stephen,  who  always  agreed 
fully  with  that  body  of  opinion  which  forms  the  national 
standing-dish  in  the  matter  of  brain  stuff. 

"I  question  that,"  said  Bellew,  "the  Englishman's 
hide  is  as  thick  as  a  shell.  He  never  feels  anything  but 
his  own  internal  disorders,  for  he  draws  a  solid  rim  round 
himself  that  cuts  him  off  from  the  rest  of  the  universe. 
"Myself  and  the  moving  show,"  that's  his  reading  of 
the  situation.  He  never  feels  himself  one  with  the  pro- 
cession. ' ' 

Bellew,  as  Molly  began  to  recognise,  was  covertly  de- 
scribing Anerley,  for  that  young  man  was  as  compactly 
built  into  his  shell  as  a  sea-urchin  and  as  little  aware 
as  any  mollusk  of  the  vastness  of  the  ocean  in  which  he 
sported. 

"No,  Mr.  Anerley,"  he  continued,  "we're  a  much 
over-rated  nation." 

Stephen  instantly  began  to  feel  it  his  business  to  take 
up  the  cudgels  on  behalf  of  the  national  honour. 

""We've  sense  enough,  anyway,"  said  he  angrily,  "to 
make  ourselves  bulk  rather  large  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
We  do  get  things  done,  at  least." 

' '  Yes.     Generally  the  wrong  things. ' ' 

"Nobody  could  answer  a  sweeping  charge  like  that. 


118  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

It's  a  mere  pose  to  despise  everything  English.  "We're 
getting  so  humble  now  that  we're  perfect  worms.  To 
hear  an  Englishman  talk  of  himself  makes  one  sick.  If 
he's  such  a  fool  as  he  makes  out,  he  simply  hasn't  the 
right  to  exist." 

' '  Not  when  he 's  young, ' '  said  Bellew  slyly.  ' '  In  youth 
he  crows  loudly  enough. ' ' 

Molly  interposed. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "it  isn't  fair  to  complain  be- 
cause an  Arab  describes  the  sky  better  than  an  English- 
man, for  they  don't  see  the  sky  in  at  all  the  same  way." 

"Exactly.  They  don't;  that's  what  I  complain  of," 
said  Bellew. 

"  It 's  more  useful  to  see  the  earth  than  the  sky. ' ' 

"Not  to  a  navigator,"  laughed  Molly. 

"Two  men  look  through  prison  bars.  One  sees  the 
mud  and  t'other  the  stars,"  hummed  Bellew  contemptu- 
ously. 

Stephen  was  merely  aware  of  the  other's  exhibition 
of  temper  and  laughed;  the  talk  was  so  entirely  trivial 
and  the  man  so  irritable  that  he  really  enjoyed  the  sen- 
sation of  rising  temperature.  But  to  Molly  it  was  an 
occasion  of  considerable  perturbation,  for  the  thoughts  in 
her  that  weighed  the  great  and  small  out  here  on  the  ter- 
race were  embittered  by  a  scorching  recollection  of 
Stephen's  foolish  exhibition  of  himself  in  the  drawing- 
room  half  an  hour  before.  There  he  had  sung  Stille 
Naclit,  making  the  last  word  rhyme  with  ' '  gnashed ' '  and 
pronouncing  the  rest  of  the  song  in  similar  style.  Molly's 
nerves  had  so  often  quivered  at  solecisms  on  her  mother 's 
part  that  her  brain  quickly  sent  the  message  of  alarm 
to  her  cheeks.  Stinging  pity  fought  in  her  heart  with 
anger  that  anyone  belonging  to  herself  should  thus  lay 
himself  open  to  ridicule. 

Stephen  was  a  man  who,  whenever  he  talked  science  to 
a  musician  or  law  to  an  engineer,  would  be  regarded  as 
a  Daniel  come  to  judgment;  it  was  only  when  his  evil 


CAP  AND  BELLS  119 

genius  prompted  him  to  venture  on  science  with  a  scien- 
tist or  law  with  a  lawyer,  that  the  eyes  of  these  learned 
men  were  opened  to  the  real  character  of  his  knowledge. 
Naturally  endowed  with  a  good  conceit  of  himself,  he 
had  unfortunately  always  lived  in  a  provincial  town 
where  he  had  never  met  any  man  of  higher  ability  than 
himself,  for  it  was  not  the  mind,  but  the  furniture  of  it 
that  was  in  his  case  deficient.  His  profession,  too,  had 
encouraged  him  to  assume  the  appearance  of  omniscience 
as  he  fluttered  with  the  changing  of  the  popular  fancy 
from  one  watchword  of  progress  to  another.  He  had, 
in  fact,  never  risen  above  the  disadvantages  of  his  early 
training  and  expected  to  be  allowed  to  lay  down  the 
law  on  everything,  from  Greek  accents  to  the  principles 
of  ventilation,  to  all  and  sundry.  But  in  these  days  the 
privilege  of  talking  nonsense  is  not  even  accorded  to  a 
pretty  woman,  still  less  to  any  man,  however  young  and 
handsome. 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Molly,  trying  to  avert  a 
storm,  "that  even  Englishmen  are  ceasing  to  draw  such 
thick  rims  round  themselves?  Every  now  and  then  one 
comes  across  a  man  who  seems  a  part  of  the  show.  I 
always-  have  that  feeling  with  Mr.  Knyvett,  for  in- 
stance." 

She  nodded  towards  the  corner  where  Knyvett  stood 
leaning  against  the  window  embrasure. 

Such  talk  annoyed  Anerley  more  than  anything  that 
had  gone  before,  since  he  had  a  very  distinct  notion 
that  women  were  not  intended  to  meddle  with  ideas. 
His  theory  of  the  place  of  each  human  being  in  the  so- 
cial scheme  was  entirely  rigid;  everyone  was  a  cog  in 
a  big  machine  born  for  one  precise  and  definite  duty. 
Some  men  were  made  to  sweep  the  heavens,  either  as 
astronomers  or  aviators,  others  to  make  paths  for  the 
footsteps  of  the  people,  either  as  explorers  or  statesmen, 
but  the  functions  of  women  were  not  so  differentiated; 
racial  service  was  all  that  could  be  expected  of  them. 


120  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Yet  he  imagined  himself  in  love  with  Molly  Woodruffe, 
for  there  is  nothing  so  inconsistent  in  all  this  world  as 
the  man  of  cast-iron  opinions. 

"A  very  characteristic  attitude,"  laughed  Bellew, 
following  the  direction  of  Molly's  gaze,  "for  he's  watch- 
ing my  wife  as  usual!  But  I  know  what  you  mean 
about  him,  of  course.  I  remember  his  once  saying  that 
he  never  could  imagine  himself  bothering  about  immor- 
tality, for  he  felt  himself  so  much  a  part  of  it  all  that 
he  never  could  conceive  the  possibility  of  dropping  out 
of  it.  I  wonder  what  I'd  give  out  of  my  own  gifts  to 
feel  like  that,"  he  said  meditatively,  stopping  to  light 
a  cigarette. 

Molly  glanced  at  him  adoringly,  for  she  knew  he  dis- 
liked Knyvett  cordially.  She  considered  it  most  noble 
of  him  to  speak  so  generously.  Yet  the  next  minute  he 
was  outdone  by  Stephen.  The  scene  was,  in  Molly 's  view 
of  it,  rapidly  becoming  one  in  which  each  man  outbid  the 
other  for  her  favour. 

"You  know,"  said  Anerley,  "I  owe  everything  to 
Knyvett.  My  father  is  bailiff  on  his  Welsh  estate  and 
it  was  he  who  insisted  on  the  old  man  spending  money 
to  get  me  educated.  Then  he  used  his  influence  to  push 
me  on  in  my  work;  and  finally  he  introduced  me — 
down  here, ' '  he  concluded  with  a  glance  at  Molly 's  shin- 
ing head. 

"A  crowning  mercy,  of  course,"  said  Bellew.  "He's 
a  good  chap,  but  rather  apt  to  get  upon  stilts,  though 
that's  a  habit  he  owes  to  his  friendship  with  that  cun- 
ning little  hypocrite,  Peter  Westlake." 

"Oh,  that  fellow!"  said  Molly.  "Mother  refused  to 
invite  him  to-day.  She  said  that  in  a  small  place  like 
this  one  could  not  possibly  drag  in  such  people. ' ' 

But  Bellew  pursued  his  own  train  of  thought: 

"Knyvett's  not  very  English,"  he  said,  "for  no  Eng- 
lishman ever  stuck  so  long  to  an  idealised  woman  as  he 
has  to  my  wife.  Look,"  he  cried.  "She's  now  going 


CAP  AND  BELLS  121 

to  play  again,  that  woman  of  mine.  Une  vie  manquee, 
hers,  if  ever  there  was  one." 

Anerley  glanced  at  him  quickly,  and  then  away,  as 
one  does  at  a  sight  that  makes  one's  gorge  rise,  but 
Molly  knew  that  Bellew  was  at  all  times  a  man  whose 
whim  it  was  to  say  to  comparative  strangers  what  most 
men  don't  say  to  their  closest  associates. 

"It's  the  Hereford  breed,  of  course,  partly,"  he  con- 
tinued, ' '  but  by  good  rights  she  should  have  had  a  man 's 
body  to  give  full  scope  to  her  musical  powers.  As  it 
is,  she's  a  childless  woman,  with  a  song-bird  in  her  heart 
that  cannot  sing  and  so  fettered  both  ways." 

His  face  worked  and  Molly  drew  him  down  beside 
her  on  a  garden  seat  where  Anerley  could  not  see  the 
expression  on  his  face.  In  the  half-darkness  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Bellew 's  arm,  all  her  being  thrilling  to  the 
spirit  within  him. 

"Mr.  Knyvett,"  said  she,  covering  the  episode  de- 
fiantly, ' '  has  the  power  of  being  impressed  by  everything 
he  sees.  His  nights  at  sea  have  made  him  different  from 
us,  less  easy  to  hold,  but  more  changeless. ' ' 

She  talked  on,  refusing  to  acknowledge  the  strange- 
ness of  Bellew 's  mood,  but  he  would  not  be  diverted, 
nor  calmed.  Stephen  Anerley  was  entirely  forgotten. 

"Molly,  Molly,"  whispered  Bellew,  "I  believe  you're 
the  only  one  that  knows  me  for  something  better  than  a 
brute.  Little  girl,  don't  let  me  hurt  you.  Never  let 
me  hurt  you. ' ' 

"No,"  said  Molly,  in  trembling  tones,  nor  thought 
of  the  absurdity  of  her  confident  assurance. 

Then,  as  the  first  notes  stole  out  into  the  garden,  a 
gust  of  wind  drove  a  shower  of  leaf-boles  over  their 
heads.  Molly  shivered  and  Anerley  slipped  away  into 
the  house  to  get  her  cloak.  Bellew  noticed  nothing,  but 
sat  leaning  forward  to  watch  his  wife  as  she  played, 
while  Molly  clenched  her  hand  in  a  passion  of  jealous 
pain.  She  drew  a  shade  nearer,  but  he  never  moved. 


122  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Both  of  them  had  forgotten  Anerley,  for  always,  when 
other  folks  put  out  to  sea,  he  would  be  left  behind  pick- 
ing up  shells. 

Presently  he  crunched  across  the  gravel  and  dropped 
a  cloak  on  Molly 's  shoulders.  With  a  muttered  ' '  hush, ' ' 
she  drew  it  round  her,  while  Bellew  leant  still  further 
forward,  staring  into  the  room  with  neck  muscles  taut 
and  head  projecting.  His  eyes  were  set  and  Molly  knew 
that  he  had  forgotten  her;  at  the  thought  she  stormed 
in  protest  and  so  learnt  the  power  of  this  man's  hold 
over  her.  Passages,  sometimes  cynical,  sometimes  high- 
flown,  occurred  to  her  from  his  books.  She  marvelled 
that  he  should  know  all  that,  yet  hoped  that  from  her 
he  would  learn  something  unlike  anything  he  had  learnt 
from  the  other  women  he  had  studied.  It  was  the 
thought  of  these  other  women,  somehow,  that  especially 
drew  her  to  him.  What  they  had  enjoyed,  why 
should  not  she?  To  be  left  out  was  the  one  unendura- 
ble fate. 

She  figured  to  herself  her  future  and  Bellew 's  as  that 
of  two  winged  creatures  soaring  in  a  dream ;  they  would 
soon  fall  to  earth,  of  course,  but  they  would  have  had 
the  good  time  once  at  least.  It  was  not  passion,  nor 
love,  that  moved  her ;  it  was  mere  desire  for  that  height- 
ening of  the  colour  of  things  which  we  call  romance. 
To  the  weariness  of  the  after  days  she  would  give  no 
thought.  The  features  of  her  small,  sharp  face  grew 
rigid  as  she  told  her  will  that  life  should  not  be  wasted. 
Then  the  wind  that  played  on  her  lips  and  face  awoke 
the  thing  that  had  been  a-tiptoe  in  her  all  this  time,  for 
her  father  had  sprung  originally  from  an  Italian  stock. 
She  leant  forward,  all  the  cold,  calculating  spirit  of 
her  mother  driven  from  her. 

But  she  called  on  deaf  ears,  since  Bellew  heeded  her 
no  more  than  does  the  eagle  a  beetle  that  winds  his  way 
up  a  grass  blade. 

On  a  summer  day  the  clouds  often  form  a  film  over 


CAP  AND  BELLS  123 

the  blue,  till  gradually  there  gathers  over  the  sky  a  uni- 
form canopy  of  grey  that  turns  the  moors  to  scarred  ex- 
panses of  desolation,  as  though  out  of  the  unseen  a  wizard 
had  woven  a  garment.  So  comes  the  first  inception  of 
a  new  world  to  the  teller  of  stories.  A  mere  flutter  of 
vapour  at  first,  it  gradually  grows  to  cloud-shapes  as 
mysteriously  as  the  cumulus  masses  itself  before  the 
winds  of  heaven.  In  Bellew's  brain,  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  the  music,  scenes  flitted  by  half-seen  and  were 
quickly  withdrawn  by  the  master  of  the  peep-show. 
When  the  last  chords  were  struck  he  got  up  with  a  grunt 
and  walked  away,  Molly's  very  existence  forgotten. 

It  was  as  though  the  girl's  nature  had  gathered  itself 
for  a  spring  and  on  the  verge  of  the  plunge  had  been 
driven  back  by  a  sudden  blow.  She  sat  breathless,  try- 
ing to  realise  what  had  happened.  The  thing  she  had 
rejected  so  proudly  was  the  thing  she  would  have 
crawled  for  now.  The  laughter  and  voices  that  burst 
out  in  the  room  seemed  a  mockery  of  her  pain.  Then 
quiet  followed  as  the  people  streamed  away  to  supper; 
only  the  murmur  of  the  sea  swayed  up  and  down,  as  the 
noise  of  water  does  by  night. 

She  moved  to  its  note,  half  rocking  herself  in  the 
stress  of  her  desire.  Instinct,  too,  was  alive  in  Anerley 
and  he  took  a  quick  step  forward,  for  some  fraction  of 
what  was  passing  in  the  girl's  mind  he  could  follow. 
"With  a  glance  over  her  shoulder,  she  smiled  wanly  at 
him. 

So  he  waited,  stupidly  treddling  to  and  fro  on  his 
feet,  for  he  understood  that  he  was  nothing  but  a  sub- 
stitute. All  the  training  of  his  early  years  rose  in 
revolt;  let  him  go  now  at  a  woman's  call  and  he  would 
despise  himself,  for  he  had  divined  in  her  a  sympathy 
with  Bellew's  contempt  of  him. 

He  would  not  go  and  so  stood,  watching  her  as  she 
turned  away  through  the  thick  natural  plantation  that 
sheltered  the  house  from  the  sea  winds.  But  as  she 


124  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

went,  he  heard  her  give  a  long,  sighing  breath.  That  he 
could  not  bear,  and  so  followed. 

In  the  stillness  she  waited  for  him,  a  white  figure  with 
both  hands  clasped  beneath  her  chin.  By  now  he  had 
forgotten  Archer  Bellew's  very  existence,  for  with  the 
long  sleeves  hanging  from  her  shoulders,  she  seemed 
a  winged  thing  hiding  the  secret  of  life.  He  hurried 
down  between  the  trees,  his  nerves  quivering  into 
flame  as  the  fallen  twigs  broke  beneath  his  feet.  Now 
he  knew  that  she  could  not  be  owned;  as  well  talk  of 
owning  the  night- wind  as  try  to  own  a  woman;  as  well 
try  to  force  her  as  attempt  to  plough  the  furrows  of  the 
sea.  Her  loveliness  that  had  been  created  by  the 
caresses  of  thousands  of  lovers,  her  body  and  soul  that 
had  been  made  the  means  whereby  from  age  to  age  was 
accomplished  the  miracle  of  birth;  these  could  only  be 
given. 

They  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment  while  the  purring 
note  of  the  night-jar  trilled  through  the  air.  He  could 
hear  the  soft  shiver  of  the  girl's  breathing  and  almost 
cried  with  the  pain  of  it.  But  she  smiled  and  whis- 
pered: "Make  me  forget." 

And  he  understood,  but  was  not  ashamed  of  his  weak- 
ness in  yielding,  only  proud  of  his  manhood  that  could 
work  this  miracle  for  her. 

The  spring  night  was  paling  to  dawn  and  soon  the 
cheeping  note  of  that  first  bird  who  wakes  the  woods 
would  sound  overhead..  Then  came  the  noise  of  wheels 
and  voices ;  the  guests  were  evidently  departing. 

"I  shall  be  looked  for,"  she  whispered,  disengaging 
herself,  for  by  now  she  was  ashamed,  knowing  herself 
to  have  given  false  coin  for  true.  "You  must  forget 
me, ' '  she  cried,  ' '  for  I  have  done  wrong.  I  don 't  know 
what  possessed  me.  Indeed,  I  am  not  what  you  think. ' ' 

"I  think!"  he  exclaimed,  holding  her  at  arm's 
length.  "I  have  followed  every  thought  in  your  head 


CAP  AND  BELLS  125 

to-night.  Women  often  think  that  men  don't  under- 
stand what  they  refuse  to  know  openly,  as  it  were. ' ' 

"And  you  don't  mind?" 

* '  Mind !     I  like  it  all  the  better.     For  I  Ve  won. ' ' 

So  the  masterful  instinct  in  him  juggled  him  into 
peace.  And  for  the  time  Molly  believed  in  it  too. 

"Closer,  closer,"  she  whispered,  her  lips  on  his. 
"This  is  what  I  wanted." 

"And  that  dangling,  fantastic  Jackanapes  is  forgot- 
ten?" he  asked,  as  he  brought  her  back  to  the  house 
door.  Nor  did  he  wait  for  the  reply,  so  sure  was  he  of 
what  it  would  be. 

Within  the  house  a  nerve-storm  had  begun  to  brew 
between  the  mistress  and  her  maids,  for  Mrs.  Woodruffe 
had  succumbed  to  the  petty  furies  that  tore  her  heart 
whenever  a  period  of  inactivity  came  into  her  life. 
After  every  great  effort,  such  as  the  giving  of  this  party, 
she  would  "run  down"  like  an  eight-day  clock,  with  a 
great  whirring  of  the  pendulum.  Her  house  was  the 
field  over  which  like  a  general  she  ranged  her  com- 
manding eye,  enjoying  the  prospect  of  battle,  but  prov- 
ing ill  to  encounter  when  once  it  was  over.  Every  part 
of  the  domestic  apparatus,  even  to  the  dusters  which 
matched  the  colour-scheme,  was  as  point  device  as  in- 
genuity could  make  it.  For  of  the  three  stages  of  re- 
finement which  are,  first,  house;  second,  clothes;  third, 
person,  she  had  attained  the  first. 

"And  every  single  plate  and  glass  that  you  break," 
shouted  she, ' '  will  have  to  be  paid  for  out  of  your  wages. ' ' 

Tired  out  as  they  were,  the  women  were  piling  up 
dishes  with  a  clatter  that  threatened  chipped  edges  in 
every  direction. 

"Surely,"  asked  Molly  in  haughty  tones,  "we  might 
go  to  bed  now,  mother  ?  This  fuss  and  hurry  is  all  quite 
unnecessary. ' ' 

"That's  not  the  way  things  are  done  in  my  house,  I 


126  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

can  tell  you.  And  who's  to  know  what '11  be  missing, 
if  I  don't  go  through  the  inventory  at  once?" 

''Don't,  mother,"  exclaimed  Molly  with  a  glance  at 
the  sullen  women;  "they  can  hear  what  you  say." 

"Hear!  Of  course  they  can.  I  meant  them  to. 
Well,"  she  exclaimed,  sinking  into  a  chair  and  stretch- 
ing her  legs  out  in  front  of  her,  "how  do  you  think  it 
went  off?  Maitland,"  she  shouted,  while  Molly 
clapped  her  hands  angrily  over  her  ears  at  the  sound, 
"Maitland,  I'll  be  out  in  ten  minutes  to  go  through 
the  list  with  you.  The  champagne,"  she  resumed, 
"lasted  out  all  right,  but  the  meringues  were  as  hard 
as  boot-leather.  However,  I  meant  to  give  cook  a 
month's  warning,  for  we  shan't  want  anyone  so  ex- 
travagant now  we  haven't  a  party  coming  on.  And  the 
expenses  I  have  been  put  to  are  really  beyond  all  telling. 
First,  there  was  your  father's  death  at  a  time  when  we 
could  ill  afford  it—" 

Molly  burst  out  into  grim  laughter.  Though  she  had 
heard  it  so  often,  the  joke  of  Mr.  Woodruffe's  ill-con- 
trived departure  always  struck  her  afresh. 

"And  I  saw  you  to-night,"  continued  Mrs.  Wood- 
ruffe,  answering  the  laughter,  the  red  spots  burning  on 
her  cheeks,  "you  never  cut  the  least  bit  of  a  dash  with 
either  of  your  two  chaps,  though  you  knew  perfectly 
well  that  I  was  running  up  bills  solely  on  your  account. 
You've  no  womanly  feeling,  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  you.  You'll  be  paid  out  for  the  way  you  flout 
your  mother.  See  if  you  aren't.  I'm  sick  of  it  all,  I 
am,  and  I  wish  I  was  dead." 

"You're  tired  out,  mother,  that's  all.  Do,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  go  up  to  bed." 

"And  now  you're  treating  me  like  a  child,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Woodruffe.  "But  I  suppose  you  haven't  any  news 
for  me  ? "  she  wheedled,  as  though  trying  to  coax  a  smile 
from  the  forbidding  face  of  truth. 

"No,"   said   Molly   curtly,   "I  haven't."     She   told 


CAP  AND  BELLS  127 

herself  that  nothing  in  the  world  should  induce  her  to 
cast  pearls  before  swine  and  then  was  seized  with  inward 
wonder  at  the  way  the  episode  in  the  plantation,  when 
compared  with  this  sordid  scene,  had  enshrined  itself  in 
her  memory. 

"And  Stephen?"  shouted  Mrs.  Woodruff e.  "What's 
become  of  him?  Why  didn't  he  come  back  with  you?" 

"I  knew  better  than  to  bring  him  here,"  said  Molly 
coldly.  "I  knew  what  you'd  be  like  when  all  this  was 
over.  We  really  need  not  invite  unnecessary  spectators 
to  see  us  quarrel.  The  maids  are  quite  enough." 

"Anything,  even  a  lie,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
went  upstairs,  "to  escape  from  a  life-  like  this.  Pity 
I  can't  put  mother  to  the  needless  expense  of  a  costly 
funeral. ' ' 

Ultimately  the  servants  gave  notice  in  a  body  that 
night  and  left  Mrs.  Woodruffe  raging  over  the  plate- 
basket  in  search  of  two  spoons  and  a  fork  that  had 
been  mislaid.  But  the  next  morning  Molly  was  awak- 
ened by  a  maid  who  brought,  as  olive  branch  from  her 
mistress,  a  pot  of  the  best  China  tea  with  hopes  that 
"Miss  Molly  had  slept  well." 

Unfortunately  Molly,  being  cursed  with  the  gift  of 
sardonic  humour,  saw  in  the  tea  a  hereditary  tendency, 
for  Molly's  grandfather  had  been  an  innkeeper  whose 
habit  it  was  to  gauge  happiness  by  the  quality  of  meats 
and  drinks  consumed.  The  China  tea  so  irritated  her, 
therefore,  that  she  instantly  wrote  a  line  to  Stephen 
earnestly  begging  him  not  to  suggest  to  her  mother  in 
any  way  that  they  were  engaged.  Nor  was  she  aware 
that  deep  down  in  her  mind  there  lurked  a  consciousness 
of  having  been  embraced  by  the  wrong  man. 

That  night  the  mood  of  exaltation  produced  in  Sara 
by  her  own  playing  had  ended  in  a  vicious  desire  to 
fling  herself  savagely  on  the  pricks  that  walled  her 
round.  How  far  the  fact  that  she  found  herself  walk- 
ing home  from  the  Woodruffes'  with  Billy  contributed 


128  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

to  her  recklessness  it  would  be  hard  to  estimate.  He 
was,  at  any  rate,  the  one  man  with  whom  she  stood  most 
readily  ' '  at  ease. ' ' 

"I've  never  heard  you  play  better  than  you  did  to- 
night, Sara, ' '  said  he. 

"What's  the  good?"  she  exclaimed,  shrugging  her 
shoulders;  "I  never  can  do  anything  with  it,  tied  as  I 
am  down  here.  I  feel  like  a  rat  caught  in  a  trap.  And 
fools  wonder  why  women  don't  do  first  class  work,  when 
they  haven't  yet  escaped  from  household  bondage.  And 
if  they  did,  there 'd  be  one  thing  for  them  always  to  be 
tied  to." 

"And  what's  that?" 

Instead  of  answering  directly,  she  turned  away  and 
looked  up  the  river.  She  was  down  in  the  depths  of  her 
own  bitterness  and  reckless  of  Billy. 

"You  know  it  would  have  made  all  the  difference  if 
I'd  had  a  child.  But  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  said  he 
came  of  too  bad  a  stock  for  that.  Once  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  change  his  mind.  But  he  didn't.  I've  a 
drawer  of  little  woolly  toys  at  home  that  date  from  that 
time." 

She  flashed  a  glance  at  him,  not  being  entirely  without 
a  secret  desire  to  wake  him  from  his  stolidity.  For  his 
part  he  wondered  to  see  how  lightly  women  speak  of 
sacred  things.  Nor  did  he  actually  realise  that  here  the 
sacredness  was  so  steeped  in  gall  that  it  had  lost  its 
original  savour. 

"I  believe  I've  hated  him  ever  since,"  she  continued. 
"You  wonder  to  hear  me  talk  like  this,  but  I've  no  one 
else,  you  know.  I  don't  want  to  cast  more  of  a  shadow 
over  Anne  than  I  can  help.  You  see  a  woman  can  bear 
being  childless  if  she  can  fill  her  life  with  something  else. 
I  might  have  had  my  music,  if  there  had  not  been  my 
father." 

"Then  you  think  a  childless  marriage  can  be  none 
in  reality?" 


CAP  AND  BELLS  129 

"Oh,  no,  I  would  not  say  that.  The  best  marriage 
I  ever  knew  was  that  of  two  old  country  people  who 
worked  together  always,  planted  their  garden,  cared  for 
their  bees  and  chickens — together.  It  was  childless,  'tis 
true,  but  she'd  drop  in  the  potatoes  when  he'd  hoed  the 
ground  ready.  He  called  her  the  ganger.  That  made 
all  the  difference,  you  see.  I  always  think  of  those 
potatoes,  when  I  se.e  married  people  drifting  apart. 
With  people  in  our  position  everything  is  wrong  when 
either  husband  or  wife  goes  on  the  longest  journey  alone. 
Cryptic,  isn't  it?"  she  asked  with  a  laugh,  for  she  was 
gradually  talking  herself  into  placidity. 

' '  Tell  me  what  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Archer's  longest  journey  away  from  himself  is  in 
the  people  he  creates;  mine  is  when  I  make  music. 
We're  both  of  us  highest  when  we  are  far  away  in  our 
work.  If  we  could  travel  together  everything  would 
have  been  different.  But  when  he  wanders  away  with 
his  thought  people,  he  puts  me  outside.  He  doesn  't  sup- 
pose I  should  care.  I  never  went  with  him,  you  see. 
I  never  got  to  know  his  characters  gradually  as  he  gets 
to  know  them.  I  can  read  the  books  when  they're 
written,  of  course.  That's  all.  I  never  know  any- 
thing of  the  conception,  of  the  pain  of  birth.  We  never 
think  together,  never  have. ' ' 

' '  Could  it  ever  be  possible  ? ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  understood,  for  everything 
was  the  sweeter  to  them  both  when  they  shared  it.  Only 
a  few  minutes  together  were  needed  to  make  the  world 
seem  entirely  homely  to  them  both.  From  such  kin- 
ship followed  exhilaration. 

"And  that,"  asked  he,  "would  take  the  place — of 
what  you  spoke  of  before  ? ' ' 

She  hesitated,  but  the  very  condition  of  their  com- 
radeship was  truth. 

"Not  quite,"  she  said  slowly,  "for  you  know  I've  got 
my  feet  very  firmly  fixed  on  the  common  earth.  And 


130  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

thought,  the  mimic  world  that  Archer  lives  in,  is  like 
something  horrible  that  feeds  on  the  reality  of  things. 
It  is  like  the  ivy  that  sucks  the  vital  juices  from  the  tree. 
I  hate  it.  Everything  is  gauged  now  as  it  yields  copy. 
That  explains  many  things  which  people  think  I  ought 
to  worry  over."  • 

Did  she  really  care  or  not?  With  all  Knyvett's 
knowledge  of  her,  he  could  not  answer  that. 

"You  see  the  new  danger?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I'm  sorry  for  the  girl.  But 
Anne  will  help,  I  think,  to  prevent  much  mischief.  She 
has  a  great  genius  for  friendship.  Oh,"  she  cried, 
seeing  his  face,  "I  went  through  that  and  came  out  on 
the  other  side  long  ago.  No  girl  will  ever  hold  him. 
Only  a  woman  could  do  that,  and  Molly,  poor  child, 
for  all  her  politics,  would  be  only  a  gossamer  web  tying 
up  a  bull.  Yet  the  tragedy  is  that  only  girls  appear  to 
attract  him  nowadays. ' ' 

He  forced  himself  to  remember  how  she  had  suffered, 
lest  a  feeling  of  repulsion  at  her  plain  speaking  should 
gain  on  him.  But  he  felt  that  for  his  own  satisfaction, 
one  thing  must  be  put  right. 

"There  is  only  one  person  who  can  really  tackle  this 
job,"  said  he,  curtly.  "Is  there  any  possible  contin- 
gency that  would  make  you  face  the  world's  disap- 
proval?" 

' '  Yes,  one, ' '  said  she,  as  bluntly  as  he. 

He  did  not  ask  what  it  was,  for  his  courage  failed  him 
there.  Instead  he  began  to  talk  of  Mrs.  Bodinar  and 
her  maternal  care  for  that  graceless  son  of  a  gun,  Simon 
the  treasure-seeker. 

"  'Wambling  home,  all  drinky-like, '  "  laughed  Sara, 
glad  of  a  change  to  something  less  emotional  than  their 
previous  conversation. 

"Sara,"  asked  Mr.  Knyvett,  feeling  the  quick  spur 
of  a  curiosity  that  drives  us  to  learn  a  secret  we  fear  to 


CAP  AND  BELLS  131 

know,  "are  you  like  Mrs.  Bodinar,  would  you  i'eel  you 
must  help  Bellew  if  he  wanted  it  ? " 

"Yes,  if  I  felt  I  were  dragging  him  down,  I'd  even 
rush  to  sea  and  risk  the  trouble  to  my  '  innerds. '  : 

' '  Or  what  is  more  likely  to  be  needed — release  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Facing  everything — for  him?"  He  could  not  keep 
the  note  of  pain  away.  Hearing  it,  she  voiced  a  bitter- 
ness in  herself  that  neither  of  them  had  suspected. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "he  took  me  and  you  did  not. 
No,  no,  Billy,  I  didn't  mean  that !" 

"But  it's  so  true  that  it's  a  truism,"  he  answered  with 
a  wry  smile  at  her. 

Her  thoughts  had  flown  to  the  weeks  she  had  spent 
in  Florence  with  Bellew  after  their  marriage;  it  was 
little  more  now  to  her  than  the  memory  of  a  fine  thing 
spoiled.  For  everything  was  theirs  that  ought  to  have 
been,  save  one.  They  were  alone  together,  man  and 
woman,  spending  the  first  hours  of  intimacy  amid  the 
beauty  of  early  Italian  spring.  They  were,  moreover, 
finely  gifted  with  power  to  appreciate  what  the  south 
could  offer.  It  was  not  that  which  had  failed. 

During  the  first  days  she  had  experienced  for  the  only 
time  in  her  life  that  blissful  aloofness  from  the  tiny 
sordid  trifles  that  in  the  everyday  flow  of  things  made 
existence  a  succession  of  petty  anxieties.  The  sensation 
was  doubly  grateful  to  her  on  whom  the  well-being  of  her 
father  had  depended  for  so  long.  Between  herself  and 
discomfort  there  was  now  a  wall  that  made  a  night 
spent  in  an  insect-ridden  hut  among  the  mountains 
merely  an  amusing  experience.  She  felt,  in  short,  as 
free  of  care  as  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

Then  she  found  her  mistake;  there  was  nothing  in 
Bellew  of  the  rocklike  stolidity  which  even  the  average 
man  of  blunt  nerves  can  supply  for  his  wife's  com- 
fort. There  was  nothing  in  him  for  her  to  fall  back 


132  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

upon.  It  was  she  who  would  have  to  think  and  plan  for 
him. 

It  was  in  a  mountain  village  that  she  made  the  dis- 
covery which  taught  her  that  he  meant  her  to  go  hungry 
of  her  deepest  need.  The  knowledge  came  in  somewhat 
cruel  fashion,  too,  for  seeing  a  woman  going  about  the 
village,  listless,  squalid,  with  signs  of  a  blow  on  her  face, 
she  made  enquiries  and  learnt  that  the  husband  had 
struck  the  poor  creature  for  her  childless  condition. 

With  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  stream  in  her  ears, 
she  told  Archer  what  she  had  heard  and  asked  him  a  ques- 
tion. He  sat  with  a  rigid  face  and  then  told  her  quietly 
that  she,  too,  must  be  childless.  He  told  her  why  and 
she  had  argued  the  point,  she  remembered,  like  a  scientist, 
quoting  Brieux  and  instancing  many  cases  of  incalcula- 
ble freaks  of  heredity.  He  had  jested,  she  remembered, 
calling  her  a  sweet-lipped  Ibsen,  a  biologist  more  acute 
than  Weissinann. 

It  was  the  jest  that  had  broken  something  in  her, 
although  she  was  silent  at  the  time.  Slowly  the  days 
grew  heavier,  till  at  last  she  repulsed  him  with  a  shudder. 
He  spent  that  night  on  the  hills  and  returned  in  the 
morning  with  a  nocturne  in  his  head,  but  the  chain 
had  snapped  at  its  thinnest  link.  No  one  but  herself 
knew  the  bitterness  of  the  succeeding  months;  she  only 
felt  that  the  spirits  of  the  unborn  were  clamouring  to 
her  for  life. 

Billy's  thoughts  had  gone  on  an  even  more  bitter  pil- 
grimage than  hers — to  his  own  awakening  and  the  pur- 
chase of  the  Pendragon. 

"Why  are  things  so  damnable?"  he  burst  out,  stand- 
ing with  shoulders  hunched  up  as  though  it  were  raining. 

"Just  because  they  trap  us  before  we  realise  the  mean- 
ing of  them,"  said  she.  "We  do  things  at  twenty,  not. 
guessing  how  they  look  at  thirty. ' ' 

"Anyway,"  said  he  abruptly,  "I  want  you  to  be  quite 
sure  of  one  thing.  That  whenever — if  ever — you  should 


CAP  AND  BELLS  133 

be  driven  to  cut  the  painter,  whenever  the  situation  be- 
tween you  and  Archer  grows  really  intolerable — 

"Yes?" 

"I  shall  be  ready.  Nor  could  anything  be  too  hard 
for  me  to  do." 

"I  think  I  had  counted  on  that.  But,  Billy,  it's  all 
so  lonely." 

She  put  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  he  covered  it  with  one 
of  his.  Like  men  who  know  the  strength  of  their  own 
passions,  he  kept  a  tight  rein  on  himself.  Only  the  flash 
that  brings  green  lights  into  the  eyes  showed  inner  fires. 

"And,  after  all,"  she  said,  answering  that,  "we  still 
have  the  best,  the  understanding,  the  sympathy." 

"You  don't  really  believe  that,  Sara.  Don't  cover 
things  up, ' '  he  cried  harshly.  The  next  moment  he  was 
striding  down  the  road  without  so  much  as  a  backward 
glance. 

"He'll  sail  in  a  few  days  after  this,"  she  said  with  a 
tender  smile,  remembering  his  quick  exits  after  a  crisis. 
She  hummed  Bodinar  's  song : 

"Down,  down,  down,  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  dead  men  crawl  upon  hand  and  knee." 

"Thank  God,"  said  she  piously,  "for  the  open  air,  for 
sun  and  wind  and  men's  blustering  heartiness.  For 
these  things  keep  the  world  sweet." 

Then,  falling  on  the  matter  of  blustering  heartiness 
she  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  seen  nothing  of 
her  sister  all  the  evening. 

"No,  I  didn't  intend  to  go,"  said  Anne,  as  she  sat  up 
in  bed  with  hands  clasped  round  her  knees;  "I  never 
could  put  up  with  that  woman  and  if  Peter's  too  low 
down  for  her,  so  am  I.  That's  why  I  went  over  and 
proposed  to  him  to-night.  Yes,  I've  been  with  him  all 
the  evening,  administering  shocks.  But  really  I  've  been 
so  worked  up  with  the  atmosphere  in  this  house,  the 
tender  moaning  over  what  can 't  be  helped,  that  I  thought 


134  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

I'd  fix  up  one  thing  right  away.  Peter  and  I  won't 
make  another  kettle  of  spoilt  fish. ' ' 

In  most  things  Anne  was  like  a  steam-engine,  but  this 
took  away  even  Sara's  breath.  She  sat  down  at  the  end 
of  the  bed  while  Anne  faced  her  with  cheeks  a-flame. 

"Are  you  by  any  chance  at  all  feverish?"  asked  Sara. 

"Not  in  the  least.  But  I  should  have  a  quotidian- 
tertian  ague  in  a  couple  of  shakes  if  I  didn't  contrive  to 
make  something  happen  in  this  malarial  swamp.  Well, 
the  Pendragon  sails  a-bucaneering  in  a  few  days. 
Billy '11  be  glad  to  go,  I  should  opine.  But  as  I  myself 
can't  let  out  by  creeping  along  close-reefed  in  a  Cape 
Horn  gale,  I've  taken  up  with  Peter  instead.  But  I 
shan't  get  spliced  till  I've  got  my  M.  D.,  for  like  all 
pious  people  he's  as  lazy  as  they  make  'em.  Oh,  of 
course  he  plods  along  doing  routine  work,  but  intellectu- 
ally he's  comatose.  I  shall  be  unto  him  like  a  per- 
petually exploding  squib  fastened  to  his  tail. ' ' 

"Are  you  really  serious,  Anne?" 

"Certainly.  Never  more  so,"  answered  she,  covering 
herself  with  the  bedclothes  till  only  one  eye  was  visible. 
"Dad  was  beginning  to  talk  of  reading  ^Esthetics  with 
me,  you  see.  Now  there  couldn't  be  a  finer  corrective 
to  Esthetics  than  Peter.  Oh,  dear,"  she  cried,  fancying 
some  reproach  in  Sara's  look,  "I  suppose  I'm  hideously 
selfish.  But  there  really  is  no  sense  in  both  of  us  being 
sacrificed  on  the  family  altar.  Now  is  there  ? ' ' 

Sara  assured  her  confidently  that  there  was  none,  but 
Anne,  in  direct  defiance  of  her  principles,  kept  awake 
half  the  night,  wondering  whether  her  remaining  un- 
settled in  life  could  make  any  possible  difference  to  Sara. 
In  the  morning  she  wrote  to  Peter  telling  him  not  to 
make  the  mistake  of  imagining  they  were  engaged. 

But  since  her  courage  failed  at  the  posting  point  and 
the  letter  was  never  sent,  Peter  Westlake  was  left  in 
tranquil  possession  of  the  field. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    WAY    OF    A    MAN    IN    TWO    MODES:    IN    THIS    STEPHEN 

ANERLEY  USES  A  CUDGEL,  AND  ARCHER  BELLEW  A 

RAPIER 

TO  Stephen  Anerley  there  was  but  one  conceivable 
way  of  wise  living  and  that  was  to  push  on,  never 
to  look  back,  never  to  turn  aside.  The  precise  nature 
of  the  goal  was  not  clearly  defined,  though  in  general 
it  assumed  the  form  of  an  income  increasing  by  arith- 
metical if  not  by  geometrical  progression,  accompanied 
by  a  warm  sense  of  general  beneficence.  To  do  him 
justice,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  latter  item  was 
quite  as  essential  to  his  happiness  as  the  former.  Thus 
he  always  desired  to  forward  any  "reforms"  that  were 
much  in  the  air  at  the  moment  and  an  article  embodying 
certain  scientific  facts  on  the  prevention  of  consumption, 
for  instance,  when  written  by  himself,  would  suffuse 
through  his  frame  a  pleasant  glow  that  was  far  more 
due  to  the  notion  of  another  item  to  his  credit  account 
in  the  book  of  life  than  to  the  cheque  the  article  earned 
him.  In  short,  he  walked  by  the  gleam  he  saw  in  the 
far  distance,  confidently  believing  it  to  issue  from  the 
windows  of  the  celestial  mansions;  at  the  worst  it  may 
be  said  that  though  the  light  by  which  he  walked  might 
be  due  to  the  celestial  bonfire,  yet  he  certainly  enjoyed 
the  primroses  on  the  path. 

It  was  Molly's  capacity  for  pushing  her  way,  com- 
bined with  her  emotional  dependence,  that  had  first  at- 
tracted him.  He  had  no  intention,  of  course,  of  allow- 
ing his  wife  to  provide  for  herself,  but  he  would  have 
felt  her  to  be  too  feeble  in  calibre  to  make  a  satisfactory 

135 


136  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

mother  for  his  children,  had  she  not  been  capable  of 
earning  an  income — of  course  a  smaller  one  than  his 
own,  since  its  size  would  always  serve,  even  in  moments 
of  self-exaltation,  to  remind  her  that  the  position  of 
wage-earning  woman  is  secondary  to  that  of  man.  Yet, 
since  he  was  an  honest  man,  he  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  Molly's  waywardness  was  not  without  its  attrac- 
tion for  him.  Even  this,  he  persuaded  himself,  was  en- 
tirely logical,  for  did  not  waywardness  mean  vitality,  and 
vitality,  health  and  power?  All  eminently  desirable  in 
a  wife  and  mother.  Besides,  his  virility  was  not  un- 
flattered  by  the  sense  that  it  was  in  him  to  tame  a  danger- 
ous domestic  animal.  But  the  culminating  point  of  his 
delight  came  in  the  fact  that  he,  the  great  Stephen, 
should  have  netted  this  animal  in  the  face  of  formidable 
rivals. 

Altogether  he  was  in  a  superbly  happy  frame  of  mind 
next  morning  as  he  discoursed  of  Molly  to  Mrs.  Wood- 
ruffe  ;  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  Molly 's  note 
asking  for  secrecy  had  been  quietly  dropped  into  the 
waste-paper  basket  of  his  mind. 

Far  otherwise  was  it  with  Mrs.  Woodruffe  who,  with 
the  intense  dislike  of  mental  exertion  that  often  goes  with 
fussy  bodily  activity,  was  now  with  pain  and  effort  en- 
gaged in  forcing  herself  to  realise  the  exact  position  of 
affairs.  Rather  late  in  the  day  for  this  it  certainly  was, 
but  Molly's  mother  wras  the  sort  of  woman  who,  after 
getting  up  at  dawn  to  catch  a  train,  will  find  herself  not 
exactly  sure  whether  it  is  marked  A.  M.  or  P.  M.  And 
now  that  she  had  nearly  caught  this  particular  train  for 
her  daughter  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  it  was  out 
of  all  question,  the  wrong  one. 

As  in  all  natures  which  are  slow  in  acquiring  im- 
pressions, those  few  ideas  that  had  been  driven  home 
in  Mrs.  Woodruffe  were  very  deep-rooted.  They  dated, 
of  course,  from  the  days  of  her  youth,  for  such  women 
acquire  no  fresh  notions  after  twenty,  and  were  ac- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  137 

cordingly  endowed  with  the  tenacity  of  the  idee  fixe. 
Everything  in  her  system  of  thought  was  reduced  to 
two  conceptions;  men  were  made  to  earn  money,  but 
the  woman  who  required  to  work  for  her  living  was  not 
only  a  failure,  but  a  degraded  failure.  Her  affection 
for  her  daughter  was  not  high-toned,  of  course,  but  it 
was  genuine  as  far  as  it  went  and  it  would  have  broken 
her  heart  to  think  that  her  only  child  had  been  driven 
to  the  last  desperate  resource  of  the  derelicts  of  femi- 
ninity, that  hateful  work,  the  hall-mark  of  failure.  She 
had  been  forced  by  Molly's  will  to  acquiesce  in  the 
training  that  had  fitted  her  for  a  secretaryship,  she  had 
even  welcomed  the  several  situations  as  so  many  matri- 
monial chances  for  the  girl.  But  that  such  a  state  of 
things  should  last  was  inconceivable,  since  every  woman 
of  ordinary  good  looks  had  one  unfailing  weapon  against 
defeat,  the  power  of  arousing  desire.  If  she  was  fool 
enough  not  to  use  it,  then  let  her  fall  into  the  hell  of 
womanhood.  Let  her  toil  for  her  living  and  be  stamped 
as  a  pariah. 

Entirely  without  capacity  for  passion  herself,  she  be- 
lieved her  daughter  to  be  quite  well  able  to  take  care  of 
herself,  able  in  fact  to  suggest  intrigue  for  the  purpose 
of  further  allurement.  Hence  the  idea  that  Molly's 
flirtation  with  Bellew  was  anything  more  than  the  setting 
of  a  man-trap  never  occurred  to  her  for  a  second.  All 
that  side  of  things  was  just  man's  weakness,  the  weak- 
ness by  which  woman  lived. 

For  a  short  period  during  her  early  married  life  she 
had  herself  been  obliged  to  make  her  hands  sodden  by 
taking  in  the  washing  of  fine  linen ;  the  memory  of  that 
brief  period  of  poverty  and  work  seemed  a  greater  stain 
on  her  past  than  an  illicit  love  affair.  For  she  had  in 
extreme  form  the  docility  that  accepts  men's  estimate 
of  women's  position,  combined  with  the  unswerving 
relentless  logic  that  forces  that  estimate  to  its  complete 
fulfilment.  For  in  Mrs.  Woodruffe's  idea  if  a  woman 


138  WINGS  OF  DESIKE 

ought  to  live  by  sex,  for  her  to  live  by  anything  else  is 
manifest  failure. 

But  there  are  higher  and  lower  prices  to  be  paid ;  she 
was  minded  to  get  a  high  price  for  her  daughter  and 
was  at  last  awaking  to  the  fact  that  Anerley's  price  was 
not  as  high  as  it  ought  to  be,  especially  when  there  were 
other  potential  bidders. 

The  daughter  of  an  innkeeper  in  a  naval  port,  she  had 
picked  life  to  its  bare  bones.  Her  earliest  memories  were 
of  the  rushing  mornings  when  the  incessant  rattle  of  the 
till  resulted  from  a  ship 's  being  paid  off,  the  furtive  even- 
ings when  men  and  women  who  had  reached  the  lowest 
stage  of  the  drink  craze  had  to  be  hustled  out  of  the 
way  of  inspectors.  Her  father  was  a  shrewd,  hard  man, 
pitiless  and  hungry,  who  kept  his  end  well  up.  The 
memory  of  it  all  and  of  its  maxims  of  wisdom,  was  bitten 
deep,  even  to  the  constant  child-bearing  illnesses  of  her 
mother  who  was  a  fool,  for  she  should,  in  her  department 
of  life,  have  cheated  a  bit.  She  would  not  then  have 
died,  prematurely  worn  out.  Still,  an  honest  woman 
who  did  her  duty  to  the  man  who  supported  her. 

From  it  all  one  ruling  idea  emerged,  the  notion  that 
to  be  "a  master  man,"  one  free  of  tied  houses,  was  the 
only  really  superior  position.  For  everything  in  the 
new  station  of  life  to  which  marriage  had  removed  her 
was  now  translated  by  her  into  the  terms  which  she  had 
learnt  in  her  childhood.  Thus  to  her,  the  true  ' '  master- 
man"  was  an  employer,  not  an  employe,  and  when  she 
found  that  Anerley's  family  was  in  a  position  of  de- 
pendence on  Mr.  Kny vett,  she  felt  that  marriage  with  him 
would  be  humiliating  for  Molly.  Worse  than  all,  when 
Stephen,  with  the  straightforward  honesty  that  was 
largely  due  to  his  own  self-confidence,  went  on  to  speak  of 
the  inherent  riskiness  of  all  journalism,  she  instantly  re- 
garded him  as  a  man  employed  in  casual  labour.  Being 
inherently  incapable,  however,  of  letting  go  a  single 
string  to  her  bow,  she  began  to  temporise. 


139 

"Dear  Mr.  Anerley,"  said  she,  "we  must  not  force 
the  child's  feelings.  I  have  always  thought  that  a 
young  girl's  affection  is  a  sort  of  delicate  bloom  which 
a  rough  touch  may  brush  off. ' ' 

Stephen,  being  unable  to  compare  speech  and  thought 
in  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  entirely  acquiesced  in  the  suita- 
bility of  her  sentiments,  though  of  course  he  put 
no  more  faith  in  them  than  she  did  herself.  They  were 
only  comme-il-faut,  like  the  d'oyleys,  the  drawn-thread 
tea-cloths,  the  single  flowers  in  "specimen  glasses" 
without  which  Mrs.  Woodruffe  found  it  impossible  to 
exist.  She  was  now  a  housekeeper  of  the  type  who  lays 
traps  to  prove  whether  the  housemaid  turns  the  mat- 
tresses every  day,  having  travelled  many  a  mile  since 
the  days  when  Mr.  Woodruffe  had  been  forced  to  marry 
the  innkeeper's  daughter  who  heartily  despised  him  for 
allowing  himself  to  be  entrapped. 

"But,"  said  Stephen  with  the  air  of  one  taking  off 
his  shoes  on  holy  ground,  "I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  her  affection  is  mine. ' ' 

He  smiled  inwardly  at  his  elegant  euphemism  for  her 
' '  closer,  closer,  make  me  forget. ' '  Then  he  felt  ashamed 
of  his  smile,  for  Molly,  apart  from  her  mother,  was  en- 
tirely dear  to  him. 

"The  child  would  not  willingly  mislead  you  I  am 
sure,  but  she  is  impulsive.  I  was  just  the  same  at  her 
age.  So  I  know;  I  made  my  mistakes,  too,"  she  sighed 
with  her  head  on  one  side,  her  little  eyes  shining  with 
the  enjoyment  of  playing  a  fish.  She  already  saw  her- 
self arranging  alliances  for  Molly's  children.  But  she 
had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  they  would  not  also  be 
Stephen's. 

Then  the  fish  took  the  bait  between  his  teeth  and 
bolted  up  stream. 

"Mrs.  Woodruffe,  I  know  that  Molly  cares  for  me. 
I  learnt  that  last  night  without  any  possibility  of  doubt. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 


140  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Let  her  have  six  months  more  of  freedom,"  said 
Mrs.  Woodruffe,  giving  him  his  head;  "that  will  allow 
the  child  time  to  make  sure.  She  has  heard  of  a  new 
post  and  will  soon  leave  here. ' ' 

It  was  untrue,  but  threw  an  illusive  air  of  comfort 
over  the  arrangement  for  Stephen 's  benefit. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  There  the 
sickly  scent  of  a  pink  hawthorn  got  inextricably  mixed 
with  the  distaste  for  Molly's  mother  that  was  rising  in 
him.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Woodruffe  patted  her  fringe-net 
and  congratulated  herself  on  her  diplomacy.  But  Ste- 
phen was  beginning  to  understand. 

He  came  back,  sat  down  heavily  in  a  low  bamboo  chair, 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other  and  began  examining  the 
lacing  of  his  boot.  Then  he  looked  up : 

"Mrs.  Woodruffe,"  said  he,  "you  don't  exactly  wel- 
come me  as  a  son-in-law.  That  I  see  plainly.  We've 
got  to  have  this  fair  and  square.  I'm  a  business  man 
and  I  begin  to  think  you  are  a  business  woman.  Now 
either  you  mean  that  your  daughter  is  to  go.  on  as  she 
is  doing  at  present,  or  else  you've  a  more  eligible  match 
for  her.  One  or  the  other  of  those  two  alternatives  it 
must  be.  I  want  to  know  which. ' ' 

' '  Dear  me,  Mr.  Anerley, ' '  said  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  trying 
to  laugh,  "you  are  forgetting  that  the  poor  child  has  no 
father,  only  a  poor  weak  woman  who  isn't  used — really 
she  isn't — to  such  plain  speaking.  For  I  am  only  a 
woman,  you  know." 

She  showed  the  surprise  she  might  have  felt  had  he 
called  her  a  griffin.  But  Stephen  was  getting  angry. 

"And  what  your  being  a  woman  has  to  do  with  it, 
I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  guess  you  haven't  fought 
your  way  up  to  where  you  now  are  without  a  little 
horse  sense.  Anyway,  here  it  is.  She'll  earn  a  misera- 
ble pittance  for  herself  compared  to  what  I  can  give 
her.  For,  thank  God,  we  still  have  the  power  to  get 
for  our  women  the  ease  and  comfort  they  can't  get  for 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  141 

themselves,  try  how  they  will.  That's  the  sheet  anchor 
in  all  this  sea  of  turmoil  round  us.  And  when  that 
goes  there'll  come  the  end  of  all  things.  But  it  won't 
be  in  my  time,  nor  in  yours.  Now,  even  now,  women 
like  comfort,  and  we  can  give  it  to  'em.  Everything  else 
is  all  bunkum. ' ' 

Even  while  he  spoke  he  was  surprised  to  compare  him- 
self with  the  Stephen  of  last  night ;  just  a  little  ashamed 
perhaps,  too,  but  the  truth  was  that  deep  answered  to 
deep  in  these  two  natures;  and  both  began  to  feel  the 
fact.  Mrs.  Woodruffe  was  silent,  for  his  bolt  had  gone 
home.  His  success  gave  him  courage  for  a  second  shot. 

"And  you'd  better  let  me  take  her  away,"  he  said, 
"though,  by  Heaven,  I  believe  she  loves  me,  yet  there's 
another  man  hanging  about  who  has  got  what  every  man 
who  is  a  man  himself  can  recognise — a  sort  of  gipsy 
power  of  making  the  silly  things  hop  down  to  him. 
Every  woman  seems  to  get  him  on  the  brain,"  he 
grumbled. 

Mrs.  Woodruffe 's  heart  beat  high  at  this  unsolicited 
testimonial  to  Molly's  attractiveness;  yet  to  her  fancy 
there  was  a  contemptuous  tone  about  his  words.  This, 
however,  she  ascribed  to  the  mere  jealousy  of  a  rival. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  she  purred. 

' '  Nothing,  is  it  ? "  he  cried.  ' '  You  take  it  very  easily 
that  a  married  man  should  dangle  about  after  your 
daughter.  Some  mothers — " 

"Gracious!  that  wasn't  what  I  meant  at  all.  I  can 
trust  Molly  entirely." 

"Then  what  did  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "For  some- 
thing you  did  mean,  I'll  go  bail.  Oh,  oh,  I  see,"  he 
roared,  "there's  another  lady-killer  about,  is  there? 
They  seem  to  swarm  down  here  like  bees.  But  you're 
out,  Madam,  entirely  out.  He's  only  got  eyes  for  one 
woman  in  all  the  world." 

"Oh,  but  that's  off,"  she  exclaimed  quickly,  and  then 
paused,  dismayed  at  the  admission  she  had  made. 


142  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"So  that,"  he  said  quietly,  "is  the  meaning  of  the 
six  months  you  want.  Six  months  in  which  to  catch  a 
bigger  fish.  The  patriarch  of  the  pond,  as  you  may 
call  it,  in  fact,  since  I  owe  everything  I  have  to  him. 
Well,  you  shall  have  your  six  months.  I  wouldn't  have 
Molly  come  to  me  with  any  hankerings  after  anybody 
else  for  anything  you  could  pay  me.  I'll  not  have 
her  at  all,  or  else  I'll  have  her  freely.  I'd  rather  she 
didn't  come  quite  of  the  family  she  does,  but — " 

"That's  enough,"  snapped  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  "since 
you  force  me  to  plain  speaking  by  your  insults,  let  me 
tell  you  that  it  is  to  your  family  no  less  than  to  your 
poor  prospects  that  I  object.  My  daughter  might  look 
much  higher  than  to  a  marriage  with  a  mere  bailiff's 
son,  a  struggling  provincial  journalist — ' 

Her  scorn  of  the  woman  who  works  was  only  equalled 
by  her  contempt  of  the  man  who  follows  such  a  lazy 
trade  as  sitting  in  a  chair  letting  his  pen  run  on. 
She  would  have  applied  this  criterion  equally  to 
Shakespeare  as  to  Stephen. 

"Say  penny-a-liner,  while  you  are  about  it,"  an- 
swered Stephen,  his  eyes  flashing.  "Old  Nietsche  says 
we  spit  bile  and  call  it  newspapers.  Now  we've  both 
lost  our  temper,  which  is  a  damned  silly  thing  to  do, 
but  natural  under  the  circumstances.  I  want  you  to 
know,  anyhow,  that  there's  no  inferiority  on  my  side. 
Potted  meats  aren't  Buckingham  Palace,  you  know, 
and  my  father  has  more  than  a  tincture  of  humane 
letters,  while  I — " 

He  swelled,  an  Alexander  of  the  world  of  the  in- 
tellect. 

"And  Molly  loves  me,  God  bless  her,"  he  said,  his 
harshness  melting.  To  his  thought,  how  like  a  jewel 
she  shone  in  the  head  of  this  toad  of  a  mother. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "we've  had  a  good  old  mother- 
in-law  and  son-in-law  wrangle  and  we've  begun  well. 
That's  all  as  it  should  be.  So  shake  hands,  Molly's 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  143 

mother,  for,  by  heaven,  that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins — 
You  won't?  "Well,  never  mind.  Better  luck  for  me 
next  time." 

And  so  he  flung  himself  out  of  the  room  with  a 
laugh.  His  self-esteem  was  even  flattered  by  her 
angry  demeanour,  for  a  man's  good  conceit  of  himself 
is  a  plant  capable  of  sucking  sustenance  out  of  the 
arid  surface  of  a  prison  wall. 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he 
had  gone.  She  was  not  as  much  overcome  by  his  vio- 
lence as  he  imagined,  for  she  flourished  on  bluster  and 
only  grew  timorous  when  people  finessed.  Now  that 
she  knew,  indeed,  that  Stephen  was  a  man  whose  moods 
she  could  follow,  she  even  derived  a  pleasing  sense  of 
power  from  the  fact.  Nor  did  she  bear  malice  for  his 
plain  speaking,  since  in  his  place  she  would  have  acted 
in  precisely  the  same  way. 

As  to  the  substance  of  his  talk,  since  she  possessed 
one  of  the  great  secrets  of  happiness — a  capacity  for 
ignoring  the  warnings  of  evil  that  did  not  accord  with 
her  own  prepossessions — she  simply  snatched  at  his 
prognostications  as  so  many  pegs  on  which  to  hang 
her  calculations  for  the  future.  From  the  interview 
with  Anerley  she  derived,  therefore,  the  idea  that,  as 
regards  her  daughter,  he  might  always  be  reckoned  on 
as  something  to  fall  back  upon  in  the  event  of  failure 
in  other  directions.  In  her  view  he  was  a  sort  of  cut- 
and-come-again  dish,  for  evidently  his  attachment  was 
likely  to  be  a  lasting  one.  From  this  fact  she  even 
derived  the  kind  of  vicarious  enjoyment  that  comes 
from  the  contemplation  of  a  persistent  wooer. 

Should  he  again  ever  succeed  in  his  courtship,  Molly 
would  assuredly  sink  into  no  squalor,  for  Stephen 
would  always  demand  and  obtain  that  keeping  up  of 
appearances  which  was  Mrs.  Woodruffe 's  highest  ideal 
of  well-being.  His  drawing-room  would  always  be 
well  upholstered,  his  sideboard  silver  of  the  brightest 


144  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

polish,  his  sons  would  enter  the  professions  and  his 
daughters  be  in  a  position  to  demand  satisfactory  set- 
tlements. Though  she  regarded  him  with  scorn  as  a 
man  who  got  his  living  by  a  pretence  of  work,  she  yet 
respected  his  cunning  since  he  was  able,  by  the  smallest 
possible  expenditure  of  effort,  to  carry  out  all  his  pur- 
poses. His  directness  appealed  to  her  as  business-like, 
his  roughness  she  mistook  for  power,  and  his  air  of 
omniscience  she  took  for  wisdom.  In  a  word,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  of  good  grain  because  she  found  him  highly 
polished.  There  would  be  no  terrifying  splendour  of 
brilliancy  about  this  match,  no  marble  halls,  but  one 
could  comfortably  take  one's  ease  in  it. 

To  the  warning  with  respect  to  Bellew,  she  was  con- 
stitutionally incapable  of  attending.  She  had  a  con- 
siderable admiration  for  the  full-fleshed,  red-lipped, 
mustachioed  type  of  manhood,  but,  since  Bellew  was  as 
far  as  possible  removed  from  this,  he  appeared  to  her 
to  be  negligible.  That  the  virile  force  of  muscle  and 
blood-flow  may  by  mental  characteristics  be  trans- 
formed into  an  attraction  a  thousand  times  more  pow- 
erful, because  a  hundred  times  more  subtle,  she  had 
not  the  remotest  conception. 

Molly,  in  effect,  belonged  to  another  class  than  that 
of  her  mother;  her  education,  while  it  made  her  able 
to  earn  a  living,  had  also  subtilised  instincts  that  Mrs. 
"VVoodruffe  only  knew  in  crudest  form.  The  mere  posi- 
tion that  Bellew  held  in  the  world  of  letters,  the  repu- 
tation he  enjoyed  as  one  whose  whole  gamut  of  joys 
and  pains  was  world-wide,  constituted  a  call  in  Molly's 
eyes  to  zests  more  poignant  than  any  the  ordinary 
life  can  give.  The  little  handful  of  people  who  sit 
perpetually  drinking  at  the  tap  of  the  publishing  world 
considered  that  Bellew  was  not  only  giving  them  ever 
deeper  and  deeper  conceptions  of  human  character,  but 
was  actually  helping  to  evolve  a  new  type. 

To  Mrs.  Woodruffe  all  this  was  unknown;  the  dif- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  145 

fering  shades  of  literary  values  were  to  her  as  incom- 
prehensible as  would  be  the  difference  between  red 
and  pink  to  the  colour-blind.  Nor  did  she  imagine 
for  a  moment  that,  to  Molly,  the  happiness  of  being 
regarded  with  favour  by  Bellew  was  in  no  way  compara- 
ble to  the  bliss  it  would  give  her  could  she  but  be  recog- 
nised as  the  original  from  whom  a  picture  of  girlhood 
had  been  painted.  Where  Mrs.  Woodruffe  had  fixed 
her  ideas  on  an  establishment,  Molly  was  longing 
neither  for  an  intrigue  nor  for  a  love  affair,  but  for 
an  episode  that  should  exalt  her  for  a  space  to  that 
superworld  where  the  women  of  fiction  are  created. 
As  yet  the  girl  was  not  so  much  in  love  with  Bellew, 
or  even  with  love  itself,  as  longing  to  play  her  part  in 
that  literary  pantheon  where  to  have  reached  the  great- 
ness of  a  collected  edition  is  to  be  recognised  as  a  torch- 
bearer,  but  to  have  been  loved  by  the  author  thus 
enskied  is  to  have  been  singed  by  the  flame  of  the  altar 
itself.  Nor  did  she  recognise  as  yet,  that  it  is  a  world 
of  mock-heroics  where  shadows  pursue  yet  more  shad- 
owy visions  and  where  all  things  end  in  the  dream  of  a 
dream. 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  was  far  wiser;  she  knew  that  Molly 
and  Stephen  would  soon  weld  their  ambitions  into  one. 
Molly's  dresses,  her  parties,  even  the  style  of  her  table 
decorations  and  the  quality  of  her  brains  would  all  be 
used  to  hoist  Stephen  up  the  rungs  of  provincial  great- 
ness. She  could  see  him  town  councillor,  sheriff, 
mayor;  she  felt,  too,  the  comfortable  assurance  that 
Molly  would  bear  the  insignia  of  office  with  the  air  of 
an  empress. 

Compared  with  the  cold  dignities  of  a  grande  dame's 
existence,  how  warm  and  fire-lit  was  this  future!  Yet 
the  far  height  beckoned  to  Mrs.  Woodruffe  as  it  does  to 
all  striving  souls  and  she  could  not  entirely  relinquish 
the  scheme  of  a  Knyvett  alliance.  Nor  did  her  calcula- 
tions belie  her  intelligence  as  much  as  may  appear,  for 


146  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

the  great  interplay  of  the  world  between  intellect  and 
instinct  had  been  reduced  by  her  to  two  factors  only 
— man's  instinct  for  woman,  quickly  sated,  yet  ever 
burning,  and  woman's  intellect  as  definitely  taking 
advantage  of  this  instinct  to  win  for  herself  wealth, 
position,  honour — all  that  men  win  by  effort  and  brain. 
To  these  twin  powers  she  could  put  no  limit. 

Far  back,  too,  in  the  centuries  Mrs.  Woodruffe's  fam- 
ily had  risen  from  a  farm-labourer's  cottage  by  pre- 
cisely the  quality  she  was  exhibiting  now,  an  entire  in- 
ability to  recognise  the  impossible  or  to  calculate  the  op- 
posing forces. 

Meanwhile  Molly  struggled  as  one  who  is  torn  between 
conflicting  forces,  for  she  was  amazed,  not  only  at  the 
duplicity  of  her  own  actions,  but  at  the  doubleness  of 
her  own  nature.  For  even  in  the  soreness  of  being  re- 
jected by  Belle w  she  had  found  sweetness  in  yielding 
to  Stephen.  Yet  all  the  time  she  told  herself  that  she 
hated  him,  that  he  was  a  mere  usurper. 

On  the  morning  after  the  party  she  had  gone  up  to 
her  mirror,  but  fully  as  she  had  intended  to  tell  him  the 
plain,  bare  truth,  she  was  deterred  by  the  spectacle  she 
saw  in  the  glass.  Wan-faced,  big-eyed,  no  power  on 
earth  could  induce  her  to  risk  letting  her  lover  see  her 
like  this. 

And  by  the  evening  the  impulse  itself  had  died  down 
in  her,  for  in  woman  it  is  not  wine  that  discloseth  the 
truth,  but  the  sour  temper  of  the  dawn.  Aurora,  not 
Bacchus,  is  the  truth-bringer. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  the  next  day  when 
Stephen  and  Molly  walked  towards  the  river  mouth. 
Between  the  branches  of  the  trees,  across  the  glitter  of 
the  river,  they  watched  the  shadow  creeping  higher  up 
the  opposite  bank  where  the  tracery  of  the  bare  pine 
trunks  wrote  strange  hieroglyphics  on  the  sunbaked  red- 
ness of  the  cliffs.  From  a  trawler  in  the  estuary  be- 
tween the  two  castles  at  the  mouth  came  the  creaking  of 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  147 

gear  and  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the  men.  The  shipwrights' 
hammers  in  the  building  yards  were  silent  now;  the 
anchored  vessels  swayed  at  their  moorings,  for  the  tide 
was  going  out. 

It  was  queer,  thought  Molly,  to  see  all  around  her 
such  complete  absorption  in  shipping,  coal-lifting, 
freight-carrying,  in  all  the  banal  details  of  the  work 
of  the  world,  in  fact.  Hardly  half-a-dozen  people  in  the 
town  could  form  any  conception  of  the  world  of  thought 
wherein  she  lived.  Even  in  the  midst  of  her  own  per- 
plexities she  enjoyed  the  elation  of  imagining  herself  to 
be  part  of  the  rare  and  strange,  of  feeling  herself  signed 
with  the  seal  of  a  very  rarefied  spiritual  world. 

Suddenly  her  mind  leapt  very  much  to  earth;  she 
wondered,  as  women  will,  what  Stephen  would  do  if  he 
saw  her  insulted.  Would  he  look  on,  emasculate  as 
men  are  now  from  too  many  centuries  of  "law  and 
order"?  She  asked  him  the  question  point-blank. 

"Knock  him  down  if  he  wasn't  the  better  man,"  an- 
swered Stephen  promptly;  "get  knocked  down  myself 
if  he  was." 

Even  to  one  of  her  spiritual  vision  this  rang  true. 

"You  may  kiss  me,"  she  cooed. 

Stephen  saw  the  connection  between  her  remark  and 
his;  he  laughed  delightedly  and  further  showed  his 
strength  by  lifting  her  high  up  on  an  ivy-grown  rock. 
Nor  did  Molly  feel  that  the  clip  of  his  muscles  was  any- 
thing but  a  joy  to  her,  for  she  was  not  by  any  means 
as  far  removed  as  she  imagined  from  the  everyday  world 
where  men  and  women  will  to  live. 

"We'll  shake  down  together  well  enough,  Moll,  old 
girl,"  said  he,  tucking  her  hand  comfortably  under  his 
arm,  "only  you  must  not  unsettle  yourself  with  too 
many  fancies.  Why  not  draw  up  a  solid  course  of  good 
reading?  I  doubt  now  whether  you're  well  up  in  peo- 
ple like  Macaulay,  or  Mill  or — 

' '  Hallam  and  Grote, ' '  cried  she.     ' '  Oh,  you  dear  boy, 


148  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

and  Mill  wrote  'The  Subjection  of  Women!'  And  how 
many  of  the  hundred  best  books  have  you  read  ? ' ' 

"You  have  me  there,"  laughed  he,  "but  really  now, 
I  do  think  a  woman  with  a  serious  future  before  her 
ought  to  read  up  well.  For  her  place  is  most  important, 
you  know — " 

"Wife  and  mother  and  all  that?"  she  enquired  de- 
murely. 

"Well,  yes,"  confessed  he,  shocked  at  hearing  her 
mention  it.  For  in  provincial  circles  bed-rock  realities, 
even  those  of  money,  are  handled  secretively. 

"Ought  to  do  what?"  enquired  Molly,  enjoying  her- 
self hugely. 

"Frame  her  mind  on  solid  foundations." 

"For  her  duties?"  she  asked. 

Then  a  Rabelaisian  sprite  possessed  her,  for  Stephen, 
brutal-tongued  with  men  and  mothers-in-law,  walked 
velvet-shod  where  women  were  concerned. 

"The  other  day,"  said  she,  "a  father  remarked  to  his 
little  girl  by  way  of  teaching  her  natural  history :  '  Now 
the  birds  are  going  about  all  very  busy  propagating 
their  kind.'  And  she  answered:  'One  doesn't  see  you, 
daddy,  go  about  propagating  your  kind.'  Laugh, 
Stephen,  it's  funny,"  she  said,  regarding  his  o'erclouded 
face. 

"Not  on  your  lips,  my  dear,"  answered  he.  "There 
is  nothing  less  charming  in  a  woman  than  a  misplaced 
sense  of  humour." 

"From  which  I  suffer?" 

"From  which  you  do  undoubtedly  occasionally  suf- 
fer." 

"But  what  if  a  woman  doesn't  want  to  be  charming?" 
she  asked,  pursuing  her  enquiries  still  further. 

"I  am  unable  to  conceive  of  such  a  monster,"  said 
he  sententiously. 

So,  too,  was  she,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  though  she  had 
met  plenty  of  women  who  verbally  disdained  the  ambi- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  149 

tion.  But  his  tone  rankled  none  the  less,  as  her  mind 
darted  to  a  sense  of  their  relative  positions ;  she  at  home 
in  the  London  world,  clutching  at  the  coat-tails  of  vari- 
ous M.  P.'s;  he  a  provincial,  who  chronicled  from  afar 
the  doings  of  those  to  whose  groans  of  vexation  she  lis- 
tened in  private  life. 

Nor  was  the  falseness  of  the  position  to  be  overcome 
by  the  fact  that  he  had  a  sweet  style  in  kissing,  for 
when  the  first  warmth  of  love-making  was  over  she  re- 
alised that  she  would  be  perpetually  breaking  her  teeth 
on  the  hard  rock  of  incompatibility.  Under  this  stimu- 
lus her  craving  for  honesty  again  awoke;  he  ought  to 
be  told  that  he  was  a  mere  interloper.  He  certainly 
would  be  told  if  he  went  on  much  longer  in  this  tu- 
torial style. 

Blindly  he  rushed  on,  being  totally  unaware  of  the 
offence  he  was  giving. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  draw  up  a  list  of  books,"  he 
said.  "I  would  take  care  to  make  it  sufficiently  varied 
to  be  interesting,  to  include  some  lighter  stuff.  People 
talk  constantly  of  physical  training,  but  they  exercise 
no  discretion  whatever  in  the  books  they  read.  And 
only  too  many  of  the  works  of  the  day,  if  not  actually 
poisonous,  are  at  any  rate  full  of  new  notions.  But  the 
old  tried  and  tested  ideas  ought  to  be  good  enough  for 
anyone.  Women  are  especially  likely  to  be  carried 
away  by  any  new  folly.  Of  course,  we  must  move  with 
the  times,  like  opening  windows  for  consumption,  in- 
stead of  shutting  them,  but  men  must  prove  everything 
first." 

' 'Before  handing  it  on  to  the  women?"  asked  Molly 
suavely.  "But  after  all,"  she  said,  changing  her  tone, 
"the  new  thoughts  are  what  really  matter  to  the  peo- 
ple of  to-day,  for  they  are  their  own  thoughts.  We 
must  always  be  changing,  be  pressing  on." 

"We?" 

"Yes,  we,  men  and  women.     Why  should  we  bury 


150  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

ourselves  in  what  other  people  thought  long  ago? 
They're  dead.  Soon  we  shall  be.  They  had  their  time 
to  think  and  it's  only  fair  that  we  should  have  ours. 
We,  who  were  born  in  the  end  of  the  19th  century,  don 't 
think  as  they  did  in  the  18th.  Why  should  we?  It 
isn't  reasonable  to  expect  us  to." 

"Dangerous  doctrine,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  none  of  these  opinions  are  tested.  They  may 
cut  you." 

Molly  shrugged  her  shoulders  angrily.  "Of  course 
not;  it's  our  business  to  test  them.  And  if  one's  cut, 
well,  there's  all  the  more  fun  in  that." 

They  were  poles  apart,  though  only  Molly  could  have 
put  her  finger  on  the  exact  difference  between  them. 
She  had,  in  fact,  the  instinct  of  the  path-finder;  it  was 
this  instinct  which  made  her  cling  so  closely  to  those 
who,  as  she  fancied,  soared  above  her.  Stephen  be- 
longed as  instinctively  to  those  who  take  what  is  found 
for  them. 

"Why,"  said  she  eagerly,  "don't  you  see  how  splen- 
did it  is  to  feel  yourself  part  of  a  big  host  and  some- 
times actually  to  come  with  them  to  a  jumping-off  place 
where  the  race  actually  begins  a  new  advance?" 

"These  things  are  better  left  to  men,  Molly.  Woman 
belongs  to  the  dear  old  unchanged  instinctive  things,  to 
love  and  home." 

"The  blood-stained  Moloch  of  the  English  people," 
cried  Molly  in  Cassandra-like  tones. 

"What?"  exclaimed  he,  startled. 

"The  British  home.  Woman's  health,  woman's 
brains,  woman's  powers  have  been  sacrificed  to  it.  Four 
walls  of  a  house,  says  the  man ;  there  you  are,  don 't  you 
ask  any  more,  for  that's  your  kingdom.  There's  power, 
adventure,  enterprise  outside,  but  you  mayn't  so  much 
as  touch  it  all." 

"Who  taught  you  that  nonsense?" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  151 

"Taught  me!"  exclaimed  she.  "Why,  if  everyone 
were  like  you,  man  would  be  arboreal  still.  It  was  peo- 
ple who  thought  everything  dangerous  that  I  expect  at 
first  refused  to  live  in  caves.  And  when  the  women 
told  you  to  walk  upright,  I've  no  doubt  you  and  your 
sort  called  it  a  most  improper  innovation.  And  I  guess 
you  didn't  walk  upright,  till  the  women  twisted  your 
tails  and  made  you.  Oh,  my  dear  Stephen,  what  a 
number  of  whippings  all  you  men  will  have  to  bear  to 
make  you  take  the  fences  women  mean  to  make  you 
jump." 

"My  dear,"  said  he  shrewdly,  "don't  forget  that 
there's  one  thing  the  women  will  have  to  accept  for 
themselves  if  they  get  the  new  conditions.  And  a  lot 
of  those  who  call  loudest  now  won't  like  it  at  all." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"The  day's  work.  Look  at  all  your  leisured  women 
who'll  have  to  put  in  their  eight,  nine,  ten  hours  of 
routine  work.  They  won't  like  it,  will  want  to  turn 
back." 

"Perhaps  so.  But  they'll  have  to  march  with  the 
rest." 

"Just  so.  That's  what  we  all  have  to  do — to  march 
with  the  rest,  you  know.  So  many  things  about  you 
surprise  me,  Molly.  I  always  wonder  why  you  admire 
Hardy,  for  instance,  for  he  has  said  worse  things  of 
your  sex  than  any  man,  living  or  dead.  Why  is 
it?" 

"Because,"  said  Molly,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"he  always  puts  us  where  we  like  to  be — in  the  centre 
of  the  stage." 

"But  he  shows  you  in  such  a  pet  about  nothing  but 
love  and  marriage.  Just  what  one  would  expect  you 
to  hate." 

"Not  at  all!  He  shows  the  truth,  that  we  are  not 
half  so  anxious  about  money  and  getting  on  as  about 
what  we  care  for  most." 


152  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"Just  to  feel  alive  all  over  and  thrilling.  And  if  a 
lover  can  give  us  that  sensation  quicker  than  anything 
else,  then  it's  a  lover  we  want  of  course.  That's  only 
common  sense." 

Stephen  groaned,  for  Molly  made  him  feel  as  though 
he  were  at  the  centre  of  a  tornado;  his  nerves  were  on 
edge,  his  skin  tingled.  He  had  always  believed  that 
women  were  passive,  that  only  the  bad  ones  were  afire. 
He  began  to  ask  himself  the  question  she  had  previously 
asked  herself;  how  were  they  to  bear  their  difference  in 
make,  in  ideal? 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first. 

"Stephen,"  she  said,  driven  more  by  the  desire  for 
mental  clearness  than  by  that  moral  craving  for  hon- 
esty which  she  had  tried  to  awake  in  herself,  "I  did 
not  realise  what  I  was  doing  last  night.  I  did  not,  in- 
deed. I  was  overstrained,  excited.  I  want  you  to  for- 
get it,  to  let  things  be  as  they  were  before." 

"You  mean  that  it  was  all  a  lie,  when  you  let  me  hold 
you  ? ' ' 

"No,  no,  not  all  a  lie.  But  you  said  you  understood 
and  I  thought  it  couldn  't  be  wrong  if  you  really  did. ' ' 

He  turned  away  with  an  impatient  exclamation  to 
lean  over  the  fence  that  guarded  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
The  line  of  red  rocks  sheeny  with  the  glow  of  sunset, 
unconsciously  impressed  themselves  on  his  mind  as, 
bird  encircled,  tree-clad,  they  faded  away  into  the  dim- 
ness. 

"Yes,  I  understood,"  he  said  with  a  man's  hatred  of 
explicit  speech,  "but  the  point  won't  bear  being  ham- 
mered at.  You  must  have  cared,  for  your  heart  beat 
under  my  hand.  Molly,  dearest,  it's  a  bad  dream.  And 
I  have  to  go  away  and  leave  you,"  he  added,  childishly 
inconsequent. 

He  had  by  now  entirely  forgotten  his  sense  of  mental 
incompatibility;  another  compatibility  wras  by  far  the 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  153 

more  important  thing  at  the  present  moment.  She,  too, 
waa  nearer  loving  him,  now  that  she  saw  him  suffering, 
than  she  ever  had  been  before. 

If  she  married  him,  he  should  be  transformed  by  her 
powers ;  she  would  teach  him  to  woo  other  goddesses  than 
those  of  money  and  position.  Besides,  the  other  man 
was  forbidden  fruit,  and  worst  of  all,  indifferent.  There 
were  indeed  no  arguments  stronger  than  these. 

She  put  a  hand  on  Stephen's  arm:  "We  will  try  to 
understand  each  other  better,"  she  exclaimed. 

And  although  it  was  exactly  the  thing  he  wanted  to 
avoid,  yet  he  slipped  an  arm  about  her  waist  and  so 
parted,  not  very  unhappily  after  all.  Yet,  as  the  train 
bore  him  away,  he  sat  in  his  corner,  arms  folded  and 
forehead  frowning,  trying  to  make  out  his  bearings  in 
this  very  tempestuous  sea. 

But  he  had,  unfortunately,  no  compass  by  which  to 
steer  since  the  complexity  of  the  situation  was  immensely 
increased  by  the  fact  that  Molly,  belonging  to  one  rank 
by  birth,  was  straining  herself  to  breathe  the  air  of 
another  that  was  not  hers  by  training  and  habit. 

In  the  end,  it  was  Billy  Knyvett  who  brought  mat- 
ters to  a  crisis.  He  alone  had  been  informed  by  Stephen 
of  the  understanding  with  Miss  Woodruffe  and  was  full 
of  congratulatory  sentiments  when  he  met  her  returning 
from  the  station.  To  Molly,  poised  as  she  was  between 
what  she  desired  and  what  was  attainable,  his  tone  was 
unbearable.  He  spoke  of  Anerley's  prospects,  of  his 
work:  "provincial  journalism,"  commented  Molly  to 
herself  with  an  angry  compression  of  her  lips.  Next 
he  went  on  to  the  great  assistance  she  would  be  to  a 
man  who  might  even  hope,  with  luck,  for  a  political 
career.  That  he  regarded  this  marriage  which  Molly 
herself  despised  as  pre-eminently  suitable  was  clear. 
She  felt  lowered  in  her  own  estimation  by  his  valuation 
of  her. 

To  find  her  mother  in  possession  of  the  facts,  con- 


154  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

trary  to  her  request  to  Stephen,  was  the  last  blow  to 
the  girl's  off  ended  dignity. 

"You're  not  only  ungrateful,  you're  deceitful," 
stormed  Mrs.  Woodruff e;  "you  distinctly  told  me  there 
was  no  engagement." 

' '  Nor  is  there.     I  refused  to  be  bound,  and  I  am  not. ' ' 

"Let  me  tell  you,  miss,  that  being  more  honest  than 
you,  he  told  me  everything." 

"That's  likely,"  snapped  Molly. 

"Likely  or  not,  it's  the  truth.  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  looked  higher  than  a  beggarly  chap  like 
that.  But  you  never  had  any  sense  of  what  is  due  to 
me.  Neither  had  your  father,  for  he  chose  just  the  oc- 
casion to  die  when  his  affairs  were  in  absolutely  irre- 
trievable confusion." 

"Do  be  quiet,  Mother,"  cried  Molly.  "All  the  ancient 
grievances  of  years  and  years  ago  are  raked  up  over  and 
over  again  every  time  you  have  a  headache.  I'm  dead 
tired  of  this  parrot  talk." 

"I  shall  go  away  to  Australia  and  you'll  never  see  me 
again,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Woodruff  e;  "then  you'll  be  sorry 
you  treated  me  so  shameful." 

In  moments  of  rage  she  recurred  to  the  speech  of  her 
youth. 

The  next  morning,  Molly,  whose  temperament  was  as 
quick  as  lightning,  and  who  either  galloped  through  her 
work  or  left  it  undone,  announced  her  intention  of 
going  up  to  the  moor  for  a  day. 

There  was,  in  fact,  one  valley  which,  whenever  possi- 
ble, she  had  made  a  practice  of  visiting  each  year  ever 
since  the  most  delightful  holiday  of  her  childhood  had 
been  spent  there.  It  was  called  in  her  own  private  lan- 
guage The  Enchanted  Valley,  and  although  she  was  un- 
aware of  the  fact,  was  actually  the  corner  of  earth  from 
which  her  mother's  family  had  originally  sprung. 

One  of  the  healthiest  instincts  in  her  life  was  to  go 
back  to  the  country  at  all  moments  of  stress  and  there 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  155 

to  wait  till  the  quietude  had  cooled  the  hurrying  pulses. 
It  is  a  sort  of  natural  fatalism,  the  fine  heritage  of  those 
in  whose  veins  there  flows  the  well  of  country  blood. 

But  yesterday's  bitter  blows  rankled  still  and  gave 
something  of  desperation  to  the  mood  with  which  she 
encountered  Archer  Bellew  at  the  corner  of  the  road 
above  the  station.  There  he  stood,  bareheaded  at  her 
approach  and  smiling,  as  though  whole  storm-tossed  ages 
had  not  passed  between  the  last  time  she  saw  him  and 
the  present  moment. 

' '  Whither  away  ? ' '  cried  he,  his  eyes  twitching  as  they 
had  a  habit  of  doing  when  his  nerves  were  especially 
alive. 

But  at  his  merry  tones  Molly  wondered  at  herself, 
for  in  what  strange,  self -created  world  of  misery  had  she' 
not  been  living?  With  eyes  bedazzled  and  spirits  gone 
up  to  bounding  point,  she  walked  along  by  his  side  and 
listened,  while  he  proposed  to  accompany  her  on  her 
day's  excursion. 

''Glory  be!"  he  said,  "I've  got  the  vision  on  me! 
Two  thousand  words  a  day  and  the  mind  running  clear 
on  its  tracks.  Don't  you  think  I've  earned  a  holiday? 
Besides,  it'll  clear  my  brain.  What!  you  surely  haven't 
any  scruples,  have  you?  Molly,  don't  be  a  goose." 

She  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  strength  had  gone 
from  her  to  refuse  him  anything ;  this  one  day,  she  said 
to  herself,  putting  off  the  moment  of  repentance  to  the 
Greek  Kalends. 

In  wildly  hilarious  spirits  he  took  the  tickets  and  hur- 
ried her  into  the  train.  Once  alone  in  the  carriage,  he 
slowed  down,  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and 
exclaimed :  ' '  Well,  I  'm  tired ! ' ' 

He  was  evidently  paying  now  for  the  strained  condi- 
tions under  which  he  had  been  living  for  the  last  few 
days.  With  a  thousand  inward  reproaches  at  her  own 
weakness,  Molly  compared  his  strenuous  days  of  labour 
with  her  feverish  ones.  Seeing  the  shadow  on  her  face, 


156  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

he  leant  forward  and  took  her  hands  in  his;  his  quick- 
ness in  noting  moods  was,  indeed,  his  readiest  passport 
to  a  woman's  heart. 

''"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  looking  in  her  eyes  that  were 
not  far  off  from  tears. 

Desire  to  see  herself  once  again  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts  took  on  the  guise  of  penitence. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come,"  she  whispered,  "for 
since  I  saw  you  last — " 

"Yes?  Tell  me.  You  know  you  can  say  what  you 
like  to  me  and  I  shall  understand." 

It  was  her  bitterest  thought  to  know  this  true,  for  it 
suggested  so  many  comparisons.  Here  was  a  man  who 
would  not  lay  a  bundle  of  dried  hay  before  her  and  call 
it  sweet;  with  him  she  might  confidently  pick  her  way 
amid  succulent  herbage. 

"When  you  left  me  and  took  no  notice  of  me,  I  hated 
you  and  I  let  him  kiss  me.  Yes,  Stephen,  I  mean.  He 
thinks  he  is  engaged  to  me." 

For  answer  Bellew  lay  back  and  laughed  aloud. 

"You're  cruel,"  she  cried;  "you  hurt  me  very  much. 
I  did  not  think  you  would  be  like  that. ' ' 

He  crossed  to  her  side,  slipped  an  arm  behind  her 
head,  his  hand  beneath  her  chin  and  so  turning  her  face 
up  to  his,  cried:  "Forgive  me." 

Cup-like  she  held  her  lips  while  he  drank  from  them, 
at  first  sipping  daintily  and  then  more  fiercely  till  her 
head  fell  back  against  his  arm.  His  touch  flamed 
through  her  till  she  knew  the  difference  between  the  false 
dawn  and  the  true. 

"Don't  you  mind  what  I  did?"  she  asked. 

' '  They  're  but  the  sweeter, ' '  he  said  with  a  smile,  look- 
ing at  her  lips. 

Nor  did  Molly  care  to  trace  the  thought,  for  it  was 
the  essence  of  Bellew 's  attraction  for  her  that  when  they 
were  together  their  life  seemed  one,  without  hint  of  un- 
derlying antagonism  of  any  sort. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  157 

Sun  warmed  and  sweet,  over  granite  boulders  where 
hang  tufts  of  gorse  that  send  golden  lights  across  the 
deep  brown  pools,  the  river  slips  down  the  Enchanted 
Valley.  Hills,  grassy,  patched  with  young  bracken  and 
scarred  with  grey  stones,  enfold  it ;  only  its  swaying  mur- 
mur, rising  and  falling  like  a  pulse,  can  be  heard  to  the 
summits  wThere  the  sun  beats  down  in  dizzying  splen- 
dour. The  cry  of  the  mountain  lambs,  thin  and  sweet 
and  infinitely  mournful,  is  a  fitting  expression  for  the 
moorland  solitude  at  the  end  of  the  pass  where  the  tors 
lie  outstretched,  prone  monsters  clad  in  stretches  of 
heather.  Here  in  wider  valley  flows  the  main  stream, 
joined  by  a  rushing  torrent  from  a  narrow  ravine  where 
a  spring  rises  from  the  hillside,  its  path  between  craggy 
boulders  marked  by  the  bright  green  of  young  trees. 
In  this  hoar,  grim  place  of  changelessness  the  call  of 
the  cuckoo  sounds  strangely  out  of  place,  recalling  as 
it  does  the  spirit  of  woodlands  brooding  deep  in  sleep, 
of  easy  dalliance  and  summer  ease. 

It  had  been  a  marvellous  spring;  day  after  day  the 
sun  rose  unclouded  and  the  west  wind,  rainless  and  soft, 
blew  steadily.  And  such  clouds  as  it  had  brought  were 
swept  away  at  night  by  the  broom  from  the  cool  north. 
The  long  sunny  hours  were  marked  but  by  bird  calls  or 
silences,  by  drone  of  bees,  or  sheep  cries.  And  at  night 
the  sky  was  clear  as  though  above  a  desert.  Old 
folks  spoke  of  summers  forty  years  agone,  and  in  mid- 
June  the  country  folk  were  burnt  as  though  by  August 
suns. 

Into  this  radiance  stepped  Molly  and  Bellew;  here 
they  sat  on  the  rocks  while  the  brown  waters  sparkled 
over  patches  of  sand  or  gloomed  across  the  weedy  boul- 
ders. One  strand  of  her  hair  had  fallen  across  her 
flushed  cheek.  She  might  have  been  an  ancestress  of 
her  own  from  the  little  hut,  one  room  up  and  one  down, 
with  open  fireplace  and  oven  built  in  the  wall,  where 
in  ancient  days  her  mother's  forbears  had  been  reared 


158  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

by  the  dozen,  a  healthy,  rosy  race,  though  born  in  a  hu- 
man sty. 

When  the  shadow  fell  across  them  from  the  hillside, 
Bellew  bestirred  himself.  A  roaring  fire  having  been 
made  of  stubs  gathered  from  the  hillside  with  careful 
treading  for  fear  of  snakes,  the  viper  or  the  rarer  adder, 
he  went  up  to  the  village  for  kettle  and  tea  materials 
and  soon  returned  laden.  Tea  over,  they  lay  to  wind- 
ward of  the  fire,  its  blue  smoke  trailing  up  the  valley  like 
a  mist. 

Then,  by  a  stretch  of  intimacy  more  delightful  than 
any  mere  caress,  he  took  her  into  the  sanctuary  of  his 
mind  where  he  had  gathered  up  the  sweetness  of  sensa- 
tion by  which  he  lived. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "that  at  the  corner  of  the 
lane  just  now  I  had  a  wonderful  moment.  I  was  wait- 
ing opposite  the  old  cottage  for  the  pitcher  to  fill.  The 
heavy  trees  swayed  overhead,  and  underneath  their 
branches  the  light  shone.  Beyond  I  could  see  the  blue 
of  the  hills.  At  the  scent  of  hawthorns  I  was  back  in 
the  past — of  how  many  ancestors,  I  wonder!  All  that 
I,  too,  had  ever  lived,  I  seemed  to  live  again;  all  the 
women  I  have  ever  loved,  they  seemed  a  part  of  me. 
All  the  joy  and  pain  that  ever  my  nerves  had  known 
came  back." 

Then  he  noticed  her  face. 

"Does  it  hurt  you,  dear,  to  hear  of  those  women?" 
he  asked.  "It  needn't,  for  I  could  not  love  you  so 
well  had  they  not  left  their  sweet  thoughts  with  me. 
We  weave  strands  of  dark  or  light  into  the  web  of  our 
life ;  they  come  back  years  afterwards  as  they  did  at  the 
lane  end  just  now,  and  we  see  what  we  have  done. ' ' 

He  talked  on  of  the  things  he  had  seen,  of  the  men 
and  women  he  had  known,  of  the  endless  procession  of 
sensations  that  is  the  artist's  life,  till  Molly  found  her- 
self receding  into  the  distance.  She  could  never  be 
the  centre  of  the  stage  here,  or  only  for  so  short  a  while 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  159 

that  it  seemed  a  mere  moment.  An  intense  loneliness 
began  to  close  round  her ;  his  life,  with  its  big  sweep  of 
the  past,  seemed  nearly  as  foreign  to  her  own  as  did  the 
hills  and  rocks  all  round  them.  He  was  like  an  ancient 
house  of  memories ;  she  seemed  but  a  jerry-built  villa. 

Then  she  felt  a  physical  chill  fall  on  her  and  follow- 
ing her  glance,  Bellew  looked  up  and  exclaimed.  Over 
the  shoulder  of  the  Longstone  Hill,  gathering  across 
the  wastes  deeper  in  on  the  moor,  was  coming  a  proces- 
sion of  clouds,  inky  black  at  the  edges.  The  wind  was 
shaking  the  trees.  Low  growls  of  thunder  came  from 
the  left;  it  was  of  ill  omen,  thunder  from  the  left, 
thought  Molly,  as  following  Archer,  she  leapt  to  her 
feet. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "we  must  hurry."  Hastily  grasp- 
ing the  scattered  tea  things,  nor  stopping  to  stamp  out 
the  fire,  he  led  the  way  down  the  valley.  At  the  cross- 
ing-stones the  first  big  drops  fell  and  the  darkness  gath- 
ered. He  made  her  slip  on  his  coat  and  run.  The 
quarry  pool  by  the  viaduct  was  leaden  now;  there  the 
great  clumps  of  trees  round  the  brink  shone  like  masses 
of  green  curd  in  the  half-light.  Near  by  stood  a  square 
hut,  shuttered  and  bolted. 

"I'm  going  to  burgle,"  cried  Bellew;  "we  shall  get 
drenched  if  we  stay  here  out  of  cover." 

The  long  rusty  screws  that  held  the  wooden  shutters 
across  the  window  yielded  at  last  and  smashing  a  pane 
of  the  little  leaded  window,  he  opened  it  and  crept  in, 
pulling  Molly  after  him.  With  the  roar  of  the  rain  on 
the  corrugated  iron  roof  and  the  rattle  of  thunder  over- 
head they  stood  deafened,  while  the  wet  lay  sleek  and 
shining  on  clothes  and  dripping  hats. 

The  place  was  fitted  with  three  tiers  of  sleeping  berths, 
one  above  the  other.  Over  the  open  fireplace,  blackened 
with  smoke,  hung  a  crook,  and  a  pile  of  gorse  and  brush- 
wood lay  in  a  wood-box  by  the  side.  From  the  cracked 
walls  cobwebs  hung  and  rough  pencil  sketches  had  been 


160  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

scrawled  on  the  boards  above  the  mantel.  It  was  evi- 
dently a  camping  place ;  even  now  a  store  of  rugs  and 
blankets  lay  piled  up  on  the  great  bags  of  straw  that 
formed  the  bedding.  Matches,  their  boxes  overcrusted 
with  mould,  lay  on  the  grocery  shelf  by  the  door  and 
presently  Bellew  had  managed  to  set  a  light  to  the  fire, 
while  Molly  tried  to  see  her  flushed  face  and  rain- 
drenched  hair  in  the  round,  gilt-edged  looking-glass  over 
the  fireplace. 

Through  the  window  they  had  smashed  came  the  sweet 
scent  of  the  rain-drenched  moor  that  mingled  with  the 
pungency  of  the  wood-smoke  which  puffed  across  the 
room.  It  seemed  now,  in  the  silence  that  was  following 
the  storm,  a  place  cut  off  from  the  world,  a  place  where 
one  could  forget  the  jarring  wheels  of  life.  It  was  al- 
most still  enough  to  hear  the  spiders  spin  their  webs 
upon  the  walls. 

Then  over  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  gorge,  a  freight 
train  passed  with  a  rush  and  a  roar ;  she  could  hear  the 
lowing  of  the  prisoned  beasts  as  the  trucks  rattled 
across  the  gulf,  for  the  vortex  of  the  city  had  sucked 
in  even  these. 

The  sound  stirred  thought,  since  all  the  day  she  had 
been  asking  an  unspoken  question.  For  herself  she  had 
made  the  irrevocable  leap  that  means  decision,  but  Bel- 
lew's  mind  was  unfathomable  to  all  her  probing.  Al- 
most for  the  first  time  she  beat  herself  against  the  bars 
of  his  nature,  questioning,  asking  to  be  admitted  to  his 
thoughts;  weary,  angry,  at  last  she  started  up  and  de- 
clared that,  storm  or  no  storm,  they  must  go.  But  he 
took  out  his  watch  and  showed  her  that  they  need  not 
start  for  another  hour.  By  that  time  the  storm  would 
have  passed  over. 

Then  he  flung  a  straw  pillow  on  the  ground  by  the 
fire  for  her  and  pulled  her  down  beside  him.  Laying 
her  hand  across  his  knee,  he  stretched  the  fingers  apart ; 
he  knew  now  that  he  had  a  meaning  to  convey  to  her, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  161 

a  subtlety  that  roughly  handled  would  give  pain,  but 
too  delicately  touched  upon,  must  remain  ambiguous. 
For  Molly,  hot  to  rush  upon  the  fulfilment  of  her  na- 
ture, had  scarcely  an  inkling  of  the  pitiful  slenderness 
of  the  thread  on  which  Bellew's  happiness  was  poised. 
He  laughed  inwardly  at  the  whimsical  situation  she  was 
creating,  for  while  she  expected  the  caresses  of  passion 
he  was  going  to  dose  her  with  philosophy,  himself  mak- 
ing a  wry  face  at  the  mixture  he  yet  expected  her  to 
swallow. 

Archer  Bellew  distrusted,  not  only  his  own  instincts, 
but  the  very  power  of  life  itself  to  give  satisfaction. 
He  had  always,  in  fact,  recoiled  from  the  face  of  achieve- 
ment and  even  as  a  boy,  had  wept  over  the  prizes  he  had 
gained  and  built  glorious  fancies  round  the  prizes  he 
had  lost.  The  habit  of  dreading  accomplishment  had 
grown  with  his  growth.  Even  his  career,  wonderful  as 
it  seemed  to  others,  had  a  core  of  bitterness  which  he 
would  have  escaped  had  he  never  succeeded.  For  it  was 
built — and  he  knew  it  to  be — not  on  the  solid  honesty 
of  ascertained  fact  but  on  the  shifting  sands  of  a  freak- 
ish personality.  His  writing  was  highly  coloured,  hec- 
tic, even  when  most  realistic,  tinged  with  the  glitter  of 
the  footlights,  not  steeped  in  the  quiet  noonday.  Falsely 
true,  it  rang  a  note  that  deafened  contemporary  ears, 
but  would  not  be  taken  as  history  in  time  to  come. 

Here  again  achievement  was  far  less  satisfactory  than 
vision ;  he  even  envied  the  great  unprinted,  one  of  whom 
had  told  him  of  the  joy  derived  from  a  typewritten 
manuscript  that  reposed  in  a  drawer.  All  the  fame  in 
the  world,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him,  would  never  yield  the 
solid  satisfaction  of  a  virgin  creation  unsullied  by  the 
coarse  hands  of  the  world.  So  he  talked  of  common 
joys,  but  held  aloof  from  the  procession;  envied  the 
sweetness  of  the  wild  rock-honey,  but  never  gathered  it. 

" Molly,"  he  said  tenderly,  stooping  down  and  looking 
in  her  eyes,  "don't  let  us  play  at  cross  purposes." 


162  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Her  voice  shaking,  she  said  "Yes,"  and  waited  for 
the  rest. 

He  got  up  restlessly,  and  leant  his  shoulder  against 
the  mantelpiece,  while  he  asked  himself  angrily  why  in 
the  world  were  human  beings  trained  to  be  so  matter- 
of-fact  in  their  views.  For  he  himself  at  the  present 
moment  seemed  vainly  grasping  at  gossamer  curtains 
that  blinded  him. 

He  dreaded  failure  so  much  that  he  kept  silence, 
while  Molly  began  wildly  to  throw  out  her  hands,  not 
knowing  whom  she  fought,  nor  what  precipice  she  was 
approaching. 

"I  do  not  think  we  shall  see  very  much  of  one  an- 
other after  this,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  coldly.  "I 
shall  be  going  away  shortly.  And  then  I  suppose  you 
will  be  starting  for  Egypt.  By  the  time  you  come  back 
I  shall  be  married." 

"Molly,"  he  asked,  "do  you  really  care  for  Aner- 
ley?" 

At  the  point-blank  question,  she  hesitated.  But  with 
the  woman's  instinct  against  burning  her  boats,  shirked 
the  answer.  Nor,  of  course,  did  she  really  know  it. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  furiously,  "he  schools  me  and  you 
torture  me.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  either  of  you. ' ' 

"Then  you  do  care  for  me?  Molly,  do  you  care 
very,  very  much?"  he  cried,  irresistibly  carried  away 
with  the  desire  to  feed  his  own  vanity. 

"How  dare  you?"  exclaimed  she.  "You  are  playing 
a  mean,  unmanly  part,  trying  to  make  me  show  myself 
as  weak  as  you  think  me.  I'll  have  no  more  of  it. 
Foolish,  wicked,  I  may  have  been,  but  I'll  not  go  on 
with  it.  You  don't  care.  This  day  even  has  been  noth- 
ing to  you,  nothing  but  something  more  to  add  to  your 
memories.  A  collector  of  Turkish  delight,  that's  what 
you  have  become.  But  it's  somewhat  stale,  after  all." 
And  blindly  she  began  to  look  for  her  hat  and  its  pins. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  163 

"It  is,"  said  he  quietly,  "that  I  don't  want  to  spoil 
things." 

"To  spoil  things?  What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked, 
quieted  by  his  tone. 

"We  human  creatures  are  always  doing  that.  We 
are  like  children  that  with  a  dainty  ineal  before  them, 
cram  their  mouths  greedily  full,  swallow  gluttonously 
and  miss  all  the  delicate  savours." 

"Why  don't  you  say  plainly  what  you  mean?"  she 
asked  contemptuously. 

"Don't  you  see  that  I  am  trying  to  say  something 
very  difficult?" 

"Then  say  it.  You  only  frighten  me  by  all  this  beat- 
ing about  the  bush." 

"I  want,"  said  he  slowly,  "to  keep  the  preciousness 
of  our — friendship,  of  our  love,  unspoilt.  That  is  what 
I  have  been  trying  to  say  all  this  time.  Everyone  trans- 
forms love  and  friendship  into  something  crude,  even 
ugly.  They  think  that  love  means  possession,  and 
friendship,  eternal  companionship.  It  is  not  so.  Love 
and  friendship  are  delicate,  lovely  things  that  must  not 
be  coarsely  swallowed.  If  so  they  lose  their  beauty — 
become  even  hideous.  That  is  why  weariness,  hatred 
even,  follow  on  marriage.  You  know  how  beautiful  an 
untouched  stretch  of  bracken  looks,  how  hideous  when 
beaten  down." 

"Yes,"  said  she  faintly,  "but  wounded,  it  gives  out  a 
sweet  smell." 

To  what  far  distances  he  was  driving  her,  she  could 
not  tell,  but  into  her  brain  was  stealing  a  perception  of 
his  meaning. 

"I  wouldn't  ruin  a  beautiful  thing  by  laying  rough 
hands  on  it,"  he  went  on.  "Once  I  did  that.  I  was 
young  then.  We  both  were  mere  tyros  at  life.  The 
misery,  the  shame,  of  the  after-fruits,  I  shall  never  for- 
get. Love  turned — in  me  at  any  rate — to  something 


164  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

more  like  hatred  than  anything  else.  But  I  have  for- 
gotten, it  was  so  long  ago." 

He  spoke  dreamily,  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Molly,  can't  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  cold  and  white.  "Yes,  I  un- 
derstand. At  least  I  think  so.  But  I  don't  know.  It 
is  all  so  bewildering." 

She  was  becoming  faint  and  he  helped  her  to  sit  down. 
Leaning  her  head  on  her  hand,  she  stared  at  the  fire, 
dying  now  into  hot  ash. 

"I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world,"  he  said  mis- 
erably. ' '  But  ask  yourself,  have  we  not  as  it  is  the  best 
of  it  all?  Love,  friendship,  tenderness?  Think  what 
intrigues,  what  subterfuges,  what  sordid  details  we 
should  have  to  live  through?  Do  you  not  shrink  from 
it  all?" 

She  had  never  thought  of  them,  did  not  now,  even 
while  he  spoke.  She  had  imagined  the  joy  of  life  shared 
in  common,  of  wakings  and  sleepings,  of  interests  ever 
growing,  of  that  garnering  up  of  homely  memories  that 
transforms  the  trivial  by  the  divine  alchemy  of  love. 
Now  only  a  flood  of  loneliness,  the  sense  of  being  outcast, 
poured  over  her. 

Her  instinct  of  honesty,  such  as  it  was,  revolted  from 
the  unreality  of  it  all.  He  talked  of  subterfuges,  but 
what  worse  subterfuge  could  be  than  to  shirk  the  open 
deed  that  ought  to  follow  on  the  thought  by  that  close 
linking  of  the  law  of  life  which  we  disregard  at  our  peril  ? 

Stephen,  matter-of-fact,  conceited,  hide-bound  in  con- 
vention, was  better  than  this.  His  ladder,  mayhap,  led 
nowhere  near  the  stars,  but  at  any  rate  there  were  no 
broken  stairways  on  it. 

Bellew  went  away  to  the  village  without  a  word;  he 
had  to  arrange  for  the  refastening  of  the  hut  and  to 
return  the  things  he  had  borrowed. 

When  he  returned,  she  met  him  with  outstretched 
hands;  she  had  wrestled  through  her  first  moment  of 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAM  165 

anger,  had  accepted  the  situation,  yet  with  untold  scorn 
of  him. 

"We  must  not  meet  again,"  she  cried,  "for  I  am  only 
of  very  coarse  clay.  I  must  get  used  to  understanding 
this.  I  have  to  forget." 

Unknown  to  herself,  she  was  making  a  last  wild  ap- 
peal to  the  fibres  of  manliness  in  him.  But  in  vain ;  in 
one  sense  he  was  miserable,  yet  somewhere  at  the  back 
of  him,  the  imp  he  carried  in  his  brain  enjoyed  the 
drama  of  it  all.  He  could  even  see  the  scene  on  the 
stage. 

Then  her  sweetness  overcame  him  and  he  took  her  in 
his  arms.  One  lock  of  her  hair  fell  across  his  eyes  and 
blinded  him.  He  felt  the  softness  of  her  breast  against 
his. 

At  that  the  real  torment  began,  since  he  knew  that  for 
a  cast  of  the  dice,  she  was  his,  a  cast,  indeed,  of  the  dice 
cogged  by  nature.  Like  a  drowning  man,  he  saw  all  his 
past  and  knew  himself  one  who,  being  given  a  thing, 
straightway  wished  for  another.  One  woman  had  con- 
tributed one  thing  to  his  life;  another  woman,  some- 
thing different;  he  loved  the  poppy-red  woman  for  her 
fire  of  life ;  the  wit,  for  her  salt  of  satire ;  the  child  for 
her  naive  delight  in  the  dawn  of  her  powers. 

He  was  a  butterfly  in  a  garden;  no  honey-bee.  Nor 
could  he  sink  to  the  last  level  of  meanness. 

He  put  her  gently  away  and  helped  her  out  of  the 
hut.  Between  the  dripping  trees  that  shed  the  sweet- 
ness of  minute  drops  all  round  them,  they  walked  al- 
most in  silence.  White-faced  and  strained,  they  said 
good-bye  at  the  other  end  with  scarcely  any  feeling  save 
that  of  utter  weariness.  They  were,  indeed,  like  men 
whose  hearing  has  been  destroyed  by  the  incessant  firing 
»f  shot. 

But,  unknown  to  themselves,  their  parting  was  no- 
ticed by  the  last  two  persons  in  the  whole  world  whom 
they  would  have  chosen  to  view  it. 


166  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Did  you  see  that,  Peter?"  asked  Mr.  Knyvett  after 
a  pause,  during  which  they  had  listened  to  the  receding 
footsteps  tracing  separate  paths. 

Peter  Westlake  nodded. 

"Something  wrong  there,"  he  said. 

"Something  very  wrong,"  answered  the  other. 

They  plodded  on  in  silence,  each  man's  mind  follow- 
ing the  same  line  of  thought,  for  they  were  reflecting 
on  the  helplessness  of  even  the  best  will  in  the  world  in 
face  of  the  interactions  of  character. 

"You  see,"  said  Billy  at  last,  "I  can't  bear  to  think 
that  Sara  is  somehow,  though  remotely  and  uncon- 
sciously, involved  in  any  harm  that  may  come  to  that 
girl.  Of  course,  she  isn't  really  implicated,  but  still — " 

Peter  nodded,  wondering  rather  to  see  that  even  Billy, 
apart  from  Sara,  scarcely  realised  the  bitterness  of  the 
girl's  fate.  Though  he  checked  the  thought  as  disloyal, 
it  persisted. 

"This  is  a  matter  in  which  you  can't  appear,"  said 
he.  "Nor,  of  course,  can  any  man.  Besides,  we  shall 
be  away  out  of  it  soon." 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Knyvett  piously.  "I 
really  feel  inclined  to  carry  somebody  off  and  go." 

"Sort  of  'Once  aboard  the  lugger  and  the  maid  is 
mine,'  "  smiled  Peter.  "Well,  I  don't  mind  confessing 
that  I  feel  just  the  same.  But  I  don't  really  see  how 
you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  leave  things  in  such  a 
mess. ' ' 

"I  must,"  said  Knyvett  shortly,  beginning  to  walk  at 
a  prodigious  rate,  so  that  the  little  man  by  his  side 
could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  him.  "What  good  can 
I  do  by  staying  here?  As  you  say,  I  can  do  nothing. 
The  whole  damned  thing's  like  a  ghastly  tumour  that's 
got  to  go  on  growing  till  it 's  ripe,  so  to  speak. ' ' 

"But  you  can't  sit  down  and  watch  it  ripen.  No,  I 
see,"  said  Peter. 

When  close-pressed  by  circumstance  and  without  the 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  167 

chance  of  action,  Knyvett  always  felt  that  curious  re- 
striction of  the  brain  which  is  a  foreshadowing  of  the 
shadow  of  insanity.  It  was  the  passivity  of  endurance 
through  days  and  nights  that  goaded  him  to  incessant 
wandering,  now  that  by  his  own  folly  he  had  cast  aside 
his  profession. 

"It  wants  a  woman,  does  this  job,"  continued  Peter, 
"a  woman  who's  not  directly  involved  in  the  affair. 
Anne's  too  close  to  Sara  to  be  any  real  good.  Why  not 
get  Mrs.  Knyvett  to  come  down  and  lend  a  hand?" 

Secretly  he  lived  in  dread  lest  the  cruise  of  the  Pen- 
dragon  should  be  postponed.  Peter  had  never  been  out 
of  harness  before  and  at  the  prospect  of  unlimited  free- 
dom no  bean-fed  horse  could  have  rioted  in  more  ob- 
streperous spirits — internally,  of  course.  Having  lived 
all  his  life  in  gardenless  brick  streets,  having  warmed 
himself  at  a  smug  gas  fire  most  of  his  days,  he  was  pos- 
sessed by  a  wander-lust  that  was  strong  in  proportion  to 
the  straitness  of  the  bars  which  had  confined  him.  Born 
in  a  Midland  manufacturing  town,  he  had  always  kept 
at  the  back  of  his  mind  a  sick,  but  apparently  hopeless, 
craving  "for  to  admire  and  for  to  see."  Every  penny 
of  spare  cash  went  in  travel  books  and  latterly  in  far 
unholier  literary  ways.  He  longed  for  stronger  meat 
than  jog-trot  wander  books ;  he  wanted  to  tear  the  heart 
out  of  strange  forms  of  existence.  It  was  for  the  exotic, 
the  bizarre,  that  he  craved,  for  any  contrast  to  the  grey- 
blues  of  English  clouds,  to  the  long  oval  of  English  faces. 
He  wanted  the  dry  light,  the  unwinking  gaze  of  southern 
suns.  He  even  hated  the  yellowy  lichened  branches  of 
English  lanes  and  flung  himself  hungrily  into  "Le 
Roman  drun  Spahi"  and  the  "Voyage  en  Orient." 
Often  he  would  stand  gazing  into  the  window  of  a  pic- 
ture shop  while,  instead  of  the  smell  of  fog-smoke,  there 
came  to  his  nostrils  the  scent  of  the  bazaar,  to  his  ears, 
in  place  of  the  street  racket,  the  call  of  the  muezzin. 
It  was,  this  call  of  the  unknown,  to  his  Nonconformist 


168  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

conscience,  like  some  unholy  lust  arising  in  the  blood  of 
a  virgin. 

"I'll  do  it,"  exclaimed  Billy  at  last.  "Tve  thought 
of  it  several  times.  It  will  break  up  her  plans  hope- 
lessly, of  course.  But  I  think  she  '11  do  it. ' ' 

He  wrote,  therefore,  the  same  night,  suggesting  that 
during  his  voyage  to  the  Magellan  Straits,  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett  should  take  a  furnished  house  in  Dartmouth. 

"You  know  me  well  enough,"  he  wrote,  "to  be  sure 
that  I  shouldn't  ask  you,  did  I  not  feel  that  you  could 
put  in  a  good  piece  of  work  here,  a  bit  of  work  you  '11  be 
glad  to  have  done,  too ;  one  that  only  a  woman  with  your 
knowledge  of  the  world  could  possibly  put  through. 

"No,  old  lady,  'tisn't  flattery  or  flummery,  but  just 
the  bare  truth.  Things  down  here  that  involve  one  very 
dear  to  me  are  bound  up  in  the  most  hopeless  tangle 
God  ever  knew.  You're  wanted  to  unloose  the  Gordian 
knot  with  the  sword  of  your  uprightness.  To  change 
the  figure,  you  may  break  a  few  eggs,  for  I  know  your 
methods,  mater,  but  I  do  truly  believe  you'll  make  the 
omelet.  Come,  come,  come.  I  shouldn't  ask  you  if  it 
wasn't  serious,  or  if  I  could  do  it  myself." 

He  sat  smiling,  pen  in  hand,  while  he  pictured  his 
mother  insidiously  planning  the  removal  of  an  obnoxious 
tenant  by  cunning  devices  and  when  they  succeeded, 
joyfully  exclaiming: 

"Ain't  I  an  old  devil?" 

The  answer  came  next  day  by  wire ;  it  was  character- 
istic and  apparently  final,  but  Billy  by  no  means  gave 
up  hope.  It  ran: 

"Quite  impossible.  Up  to  eyes  in  engagements  in 
town.  Slay  someone ;  human  knots  cannot  be  cut  with- 
out slaughter.  Killing  no  murder  in  this  case." 

Evidently  written  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  con- 
cluded Billy,  as  he  read  a  communication  which  must 
surely  have  struck  the  operator  as  a  cipher  message. 

The  second  telegram  arrived  a  few  hours  later,  as  Mr. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  169 

Knyvett  had  indeed  expected.  "Will  put  hand  to 
plough, ' '  said  this  one,  and  her  son  drew  a  breath  of  re- 
lief as  he  read  it.  For  Mrs.  Knyvett  was  not  one  of 
those  who  readily  turn  back,  even  when  the  going  is 
very  heavy. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    UNDYING    PAST:    BEING    VARIATIONS    ON    THE    THEME 
OP   MOTHERHOOD 


picture  standing  on  an  easel  in  Margaret  Ros- 
-*-  siter's  studio  at  Chelsea  was  in  strange  contrast 
to  the  rest  of  the  room,  with  its  tapestry  -covered  divan 
running  round  three  sides,  its  carved  oak  writing  bu- 
reau and  polished  floor.  For  in  all  these  there  was  that 
perfect  fitting  of  satisfaction  to  requirement  which  civ- 
ilisation demands,  whereas  the  subject  of  the  picture 
went  back  to  instincts  so  primitive  that  the  origin  of 
them  is  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  ages. 

A  flock  of  ewes  fought  for  entrance  at  the  closed  doors 
of  a  great  barn  built  of  rough-cast  and  thatch;  as  they 
slipped  in  the  mire  of  the  yard  in  their  struggle  with 
each  other,  their  fleecy  backs  were  as  expressive  of  the 
lust  of  battle  as  the  swelling  muscles  of  a  prize-fighter. 
The  surrounding  scenery  was  that  of  the  salt  marshes 
and  they  fought  for  admission  to  their  lambs,  now  shut 
within  the  barn  ;  in  their  eagerness  they  were  even  push- 
ing the  shepherd  away  from  the  door,  since  one  instinct 
had  conquered  another.  Over  the  whole  shone  the 
luminous  glow  of  an  evening  in  spring;  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  light  and  of  the  bodily  expression  of  the  flock 
lay  the  strength  of  the  painting. 

Cross-legged  on  the  divan,  under  the  high  north  light, 
sat  the  painter  of  it,  furiously  puffing  out  cigarette 
smoke  as  she  always  did  when  her  work  was  submitted 
to  a  new  visitor.  The  two  fingers  between  which  pro- 
jected the  cigarette  were  deeply  stained  with  nicotine, 
a  mark  due  to  the  fact  that  Margaret  Rossiter  generally 

170 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  1.71 

smoked  while  she  painted  and  frequently  held  the  ciga- 
rette till  it  smouldered  down  to  the  hot  end  and  thus 
aroused  her  from  her  absorption. 

In  front  of  the  picture,  lorgnette  in  hand,  stood  Mrs. 
Knyvett.  She  was  a  tall,  massively-built  woman  whose 
pale  blond  hair  was  scarcely  touched  with  visible  grey, 
though  she  was  long  past  fifty.  Arranged  chignon- 
fashion  and  parted  in  front  under  a  small  hat  placed  well 
forward  on  the  forehead,  this  hair  irresistibly  recalled 
certain  illustrations  by  Leech.  In  her  pose,  too,  there 
was  an  air  of  conscious  capability  reminiscent  of  the 
"managing  bodies"  of  that  generation.  Her  eyes  of 
vivid  blue  were  fringed  with  long  pale  lashes  which 
matched  the  tufted  eyebrows.  It  was  noticeable  that  the 
wrinkles  of  the  neck  were  as  deeply  marked  as  though 
she  were  a  field-worker,  instead  of  a  woman  of  wealth 
and  leisure. 

"Good,  isn't  it?"  said  the  painter,  frankly  jubilant. 
"I've  got  the  light  I  wanted,  and  the  fighting  grip  of  the 
legs.  You  see,"  she  said,  springing  up  and  sweeping 
an  explanatory  forefinger  over  the  picture,  "I  had  to 
get  all  the  expression  into  those  back  legs  and  to  do  that 
meant  sweat,  sweat,  sweat.  But  I've  got  it  and  when 
you  feel  you've  done  that,  the  whole  world  might  crum- 
ble into  atoms  and  you  wouldn  't  so  much  as  want  to  say 
a  swear  word. ' ' 

Mrs.  Knyvett  laughed  delightedly,  for  nobody  in  the 
world,  except  the  painter  herself,  was  happier  than  she 
when  success  followed  hard  on  effort  and  joy  on  both. 
And  truth  to  tell,  when  things  went  ill  with  Margaret 
Rossiter  she  was  quite  the  Grossest,  gloomiest  person  in 
the  world. 

Round  her  wild  mop  of  hair,  which  she  wore  piled  up 
in  coils,  she  had  wound  a  scarlet  handkerchief.  Much 
meditation  had  given  her  three  chins  and  she  had  a 
habit  of  looking  out  of  the  corners  of  her  grey  eyes 
under  their  arched  eyebrows.  The  two  deep  vertical 


172  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

lines  between  the  eyes  and  the  network  of  radiating 
wrinkles  round  their  corners  had  been  produced  by 
much  painting  out  of  doors.  The  ruddy  tan  of  her 
face  was  well  in  keeping  with  the  flying  locks  that  al- 
ways contrived  to  look  wind-swept.  "Anemone,"  the 
wind-flower,  was  her  private  peculiar  name;  some  peo- 
ple added  the  epithet  "elderly,"  but  no  one,  save  her- 
self, ever  wanted  her  younger,  for  time  and  chance  had 
made  her  a  woman  instead  of  a  Dresden  china  figure. 

"But,"  cried  Mrs.  Knyvett,  suddenly  catching  sight 
of  the  word  "Mothers!"  painted  on  the  frame,  "I  don't 
like  that  title  'Mothers!'  We  don't  want  any  more 
sentiment  about  that  kind  of  thing.  There's  too  much 
by  half  already.  For  there  isn't  any  fate  in  the  world 
less  to  be  envied  than  that  of  a  mother." 

"That  wasn't  sentiment,"  answered  Margaret,  nod- 
ding towards  the  picture.  ' '  I  only  wanted  to  register  a 
fact,  for  they  are  mothers  you  see.  And  as  for  mother- 
hood, what  on  earth  can  I  know  about  it?" 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "the  little  orig- 
inals of  that  picture  are  already  mutton  and  their  moth- 
erhood is  at  an  end.  Yes,  Margaret,"  she  continued, 
answering  a  look  of  enquiry,  "I'm  werried  nearly  to 
death." 

The  painter  stooped  to  set  a  match  to  the  spirit  kettle. 
She  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  because  she  had  all  the 
time  been  longing  to  get  at  the  cause  of  the  trouble  she 
divined. 

Nearly  all  her  year  was  spent  out  of  London  in  far- 
away fishing  villages,  or  Breton  farms,  or  amid  the 
greyness  of  the  sand  dunes,  which  she  had  learnt  to  know 
in  all  their  moods.  Quite  alone  in  the  world,  she  lived 
for  her  work,  trying  to  paint  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
poor  folk,  but  learning  to  understand  them  first.  For 
that  last  reason  she  usually  avoided  artist  colonies  where 
between  themselves  and  the  life  around  them  the  clan- 
nishness  of  the  artists  sets  a  wall.  Nor,  indeed,  was 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  173 

Margaret  Rossiter  ever  really  at  home  in  towns ;  always 
to  her,  town  life  had  a  certain  vulgarity  which  nothing 
in  the  world,  no  amusements,  no  ease,  no  friendships, 
could  entirely  conceal. 

Like  Molly  Woodruffe,  she  felt  the  country  in  her 
blood,  but  with  Margaret  it  was  a  conscious  inheritance, 
for  her  cradle  had  been  set  under  a  row  of  beech  trees 
that  sheltered  the  garden  of  a  hill  farm;  her  first  per- 
ception of  the  fulness  of  joyous  life  had  come  among  the 
meadow  grasses ;  her  first  sense  of  happy  peace  from  the 
hot,  sunny  hum  of  the  flies  in  a  great  farm  kitchen. 
One  of  her  earliest  recollections  was  of  a  cowshed  at 
milking  time,  herself  a  small  figure  on  a  three-legged 
stool,  with  the  old  cowman  encouraging  her  first  ef- 
forts: "You 'in  barely  tickling  of  her,  my  dear.  Her's 
looking  round  to  see  what  flea's  jumping.  Rare  big 
fingers,  bain't  'em?"  It  was  subjects  such  as  these  that 
she  painted  best,  for  the  feel  of  them  was  in  her  blood. 

"I  haven't,"  continued  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "so  much  as 
closed  my  eyes  for  the  night.  Just  read  that,"  she  ex- 
claimed, throwing  her  son's  letter  across  the  tea-table. 

Margaret  read  it  carefully,  once  turning  back  to  com- 
pare the  last  paragraph  with  an  earlier  one. 

"You  see  what  it  all  means,  don't  you?"  said  Mrs. 
Knyvett.  "The  whole  thing  is  as  plain  as  possible, 
though  Billy  always  does  write  like  a  Greek  oracle. 
There's  some  fresh  trouble  brewing  close  at  home,  per- 
haps even  a  scandal,  where  Sara  Hereford — I  always  call 
her  Hereford  still  because  nobody  could  look  upon  her 
as  really  married  to  that  fellow — will  be  in  the  thick  of 
it.  Billy  himself  never  can  stand  looking  on  to  see 
other  people  suffer,  so  I'm  to  rush  down  and  bear  his 
suffering  vicariously,  or  perhaps  pluck  his  beloved  as 
a  brand  from  the  burning.  Now  can't  you  see  me  doing 
it?" 

She  flung  up  her  hands  towards  her  hat  and  began  im- 
patiently fumbling  for  the  pins.  Margaret's  manner 


174  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

had  changed  from  gay  and  light-hearted  to  very  still  and 
constrained. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  curtly. 

"Why  not?  Because  I  should  be  a  regular  bull  in  a 
china  shop.  My  first  impulse  would  be  to  take  them 
all  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  knock  their  silly  heads 
together.  And  I  suppose  you  don't  imagine  that  that 
would  do  any  good?" 

' '  I  think, ' '  said  Margaret  slowly,  with  eyes  that  were 
fixed  and  dreamy,  "that  if  you  gave  your  mind  to  it 
you  might  help  to  set  things  on  a  better  footing.  If  it 
can  be  done,"  she  added,  looking  significantly  into  Mrs. 
Knyvett's  face. 

"Fact  is,"  said  the  elder  woman  frankly,  "I'm  just 
funking  it.  I've  wired  to  Billy  to  say  that  nothing  on 
earth  would  induce  me  to  give  up  my  season  in  town,  but 
of  course  if  Billy  really  wanted  me  to  go  to  the  North 
Pole,  I  should  do  it,  if  it  would  be  any  help  to  him. ' ' 

Margaret  could  not  fail  to  see  the  reasonableness  of 
Mrs.  Knyvett's  doubts  as  to  her  own  fitness  to  deal 
with  this  matter.  For  although  a  woman  of  great  abil- 
ity, she  was  but  little  accustomed  to  the  handling  of 
difficult  human  situations.  The  daughter  of  a  comman- 
der in  the  Navy,  who,  since  he  had  no  son,  had  brought 
her  up  boy-fashion,  she  had  learnt  in  childhood  to  ride, 
to  shoot  straight,  and  to  speak  the  truth.  From  this 
training  she  had  acquired  a  sort  of  quarter-deck  hearti- 
ness and  scorn  of  finesse.  All  her  life,  too,  had  been 
spent  in  the  straightforward  management  of  business 
affairs,  for  when  left  a  widow  with  one  son,  during  his 
minority  she  had  administered,  in  his  name,  the  two 
large  estates  in  England  and  Wales  that  had  descended 
to  him,  and  when  he  came  of  age  he  had  firmly  refused 
to  take  the  management  from  her.  His  own  work  was 
more  than  enough  for  him  and  he  knew  that  to  take  her 
business  from  his  mother  would  be  to  strike  away  half 
her  life. 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  175 

In  this  way  she  had  for  years  been  accustomed  to  say : 
Do  this,  and  instantly  to  see  it  done.  Every  fence,  every 
barn,  every  house  on  her  estates  was  in  first-class  work- 
ing condition  and  on  her  pilgrimages  of  inspection  she 
passed  over  the  land  like  an  invigorating  wind,  for  she 
knew  the  localities  better  than  her  bailiffs  and  judged 
the  characters  of  her  tenants  with  a  feminine  shrewd- 
ness that  left  the  men  of  affairs  far  in  the  rear.  Nor 
when  changes  were  required  by  changing  conditions  did 
she  shrink  from  them  and  one  reason  why  the  Knyvett 
lands  prospered  was  that,  when  modern  times  called  for 
small  holdings,  she  refused  to  cling  to  large  ones.  Al- 
though very  far  from  being  hard-hearted,  she  was  never 
one  of  those  who,  as  she  put  it,  "tried  to  freeze 
jellies  with  last  year's  ice,"  so  that  when  an  old  retainer 
was  obviously  too  old  for  his  work,  she  passed  sen- 
tence quickly,  but  saw  that  he  was  well  pensioned  and 
supplied  with  every  comfort.  "Short,  sharp,  and 
up  to  the  knocker,"  such  was  the  verdict  of  her  own 
people. 

In  the  same  style  had  she  dealt  with  her  son,  from  the 
time  that  the  most  important  matter  in  his  life  was  the 
quality  of  the  milk  he  drank  up  to  the  period  when  he 
had  to  choose  his  profession.  Here,  with  her  entire 
good  will,  he  had  flown  in  the  face  of  all  the  prejudices 
of  his  father's  family  and  hers,  for  Mrs.  Knyvett  was 
one  of  the  rare  people  who  never-  seem  to  suffer  from 
that  arrested  brain-development  which  is  one  of  the 
most  fruitful  sources  of  friction  in  the  world.  The  pity 
of  it  all  was  that  Fate  should  have  restricted  her  to  such 
a  small  area  of  effort  as  one  son  and  two  estates,  for  she 
was  made  of  the  stuff  from  which  great  men  are  born, 
or  still  more  truly,  perhaps,  of  the  calibre  that  finds  its 
true  development  in  bridge-building. 

The  upheaval  in  her  son's  life  that  followed  on  his 
disappointment  over  Sara  Hereford's  marriage  was  in- 
explicable on  any  theory  known  to  her.  She  simply 


176  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

bore  with  it,  as  one  does  with  some  cataclysm  of  nature 
against  which  it  is  entirely  useless  to  struggle.  Since 
marriage  in  her  case  had  been  merely  an  episode  that 
gave  her  a  son,  she  was  inclined  to  underestimate  the 
importance  of  affairs  of  the  heart  in  the  business  of  life. 
It  was,  of  course,  conceivable  that  a  man's  more  impor- 
tant undertakings  might  be  disorganised  for  a  few 
months  by  the  necessity  for  choosing  a  mate.  With  care- 
less management  and  bad  luck  such  disorder  might  con- 
ceivably last  even  a  few  years.  But  to  allow  this  boule- 
versement  de  sexe  to  continue  for  a  longer  period  was 
to  write  oneself  down  as  an  insane  neurotic.  In  her 
opinion,  indeed,  the  oversexualisation  of  the  world  was 
one  of  the  greatest  hindrances  to  wise  living. 

For  such  a  woman  as  this  to  see  her  son  cast  away 
his  chances  of  fine  work  and  spend  years  in  dancing  at- 
tendance on  a  woman  whom  he  could  neither  help  nor 
win  was  nothing  short  of  a  tragedy.  For,  as  with  so 
many  women,  her  eggs  were  all  in  one  basket.  Yet  prac- 
tically no  one,  except  Margaret  Rossiter,  saw  it  in  that 
light,  for  she  took  no  one  into  her  confidence  and  kept 
a  stoical  front  to  the  world. 

"You  see,"  said  Margaret,  "if  you  don't  go,  you'll  be 
worrying  yourself  all  the  time.  And  if  anything  goes 
very  wrong  you'll  never  forgive  yourself." 

"And  if  I  do  go,  he'll  never  forgive  me  for  the  mud- 
dle I  shall  make  of  things.  What's  come  over  me,  I 
can't  tell,  but  I've  got  a  horror  of  the  whole  thing.  But 
if  I  should  make  matters  worse  he  would  never  forgive 
me,"  she  repeated. 

She  got  up  and,  in  a  quite  systematic  way,  began  to 
clear  a  path  between  the  spindle-legged  tables  and  chairs 
where  she  could  pace  up  and  down.  As  a  girl  she  had 
travelled  with  her  father  in  the  East  and  there  had 
learnt  the  comfort  of  barefoot  walking.  Even  now  her 
shoes  were  of  the  softest  material  and  made  to  fit  like 
gloves,  so  that  there  was  something  suggestive  of  the 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  177 

gait  of  a  large,  comfortable  panther  in  the  way  she 
padded  up  and  down  the  studio. 

"I  believe  it's  the  second-rate  people  mixed  up  in 
this  affair  who  annoy  me  most,"  she  exclaimed,  "but 
I  needn't  tell  you  that  I'm  not  referring  merely  to 
rank  when  I  say  that. ' ' 

Margaret  nodded,  waiting  patiently  till  this  fever- 
fit  should  wear  itself  out,  for  she  knew  that  Mrs. 
Knyvett  was,  just  now,  very  much  in  the  mood  of  a  man 
who  is  fitting  on  an  irksome  suit  of  armour.  By  the 
time  this  was  done,  she  felt  sure  that  a  second  telegram 
would  be  sent.  Should  her  expectation,  however,  be 
unfulfilled  she  yet  had  an  arrow  that  she  might  find 
courage  to  shoot  on  her  own  account,  for  she  cared  for 
Mrs.  Knyvett  well  enough  to  wish  to  spare  her  the  self- 
reproach  of  one  who  has  failed  in  a  duty. 

"What  sort  of  a  woman  is  Sara  Hereford?"  she  asked 
abruptly ;  "  do  you  like  her  ? ' ' 

"She's  very  hard  to  describe,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
perceptibly  brightening  when  something,  however  trivial, 
was  given  her  on  which  she  could  exercise  her  mind. 
"She  doesn't  say  much  and  I  don't  know  that  she  does 
much.  But  you  always  feel  she's  there.  People  re- 
volve round  her,  don't  you  know,  and  consider  how 
things  will  effect  her.  They  get  into  the  habit  of  won- 
dering whether  her  life  is  as  happy  as  it  ought  to  be. 
That's  the  Hereford  gift,  in  fact.  Old  Vin's  just  the 
same,  though  he's  carelessly  selfish  and  expects  to  be 
made  the  centre.  I  don't  know  that  Sara  does,  but 
the  result  is  much  the  same,  anyway.  And  there's 
another  thing;  you  know  we're  all  of  us  entirely  dif- 
ferent according  to  the  people  we  happen  to  be  with  at 
the  time.  You  might  call  Sara  dull,  perhaps,  but  with 
Billy  present  she's  a  different  being.  She  lights  up, 
she's  alive.  I  can  even  understand  his  longing  for 
her  when  I  see  them  together,  for  she  would  round  his 
life  and  he  hers.  Of  course  only  because  they  each 


178  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

think  that  of  the  other.  But  they  do  think  so  and 
then  it's  true  for  them.  But  what  I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  is  that  Billy  should  dangle.  My  son  dangle!  Just 
think  of  it,  Margaret." 

"Do  you  know,  Esther,"  said  the  other  quietly, 
''that  when  I  feel  sickened  at  men's  ways,  and  want 
to  think  of  a  man  as  he  ought  to  be,  I  always  think  of 
Billy." 

"Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "inside  him, 
of  course,  that  is  so.  But  one  judges  of  a  man  by 
what  he  does,  not  by  what  he  is." 

"And  not  always  wisely,  perhaps,"  said  Margaret 
musingly. 

"Billy  will  never  force  her,  you  know,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Knyvett,  following  her  own  train  of  thought ;  ' '  what  she 
does,  she'll  have  to  do  of  her  own  initiative.  I  trained 
him  to  think  like  that,"  she  said,  her  voice  breaking  a 
little  over  the  last  words;  "I  always  taught  him  that  a 
woman  isn't  a  thing  to  be  captured,  to  be  bought  or 
sold.  She  is  responsible  for  herself,  she  must  stand  on 
her  own  feet.  But,  oh,  Margaret,  how  long  will  he 
wait?  It's  spoiling  his  whole  life.  And,  anyway,  if 
It  should  happen,  if  she  should  cut  the  traces,  that'll 
be  the  end  of  any  chance  of  a  public  career  for  him. 
God !  as  if  there  weren  't  enough  women  in  the  world  that 
would  do  for  him ! ' ' 

Worst  of  all,  perhaps,  as  her  listener  knew,  was  the 
fear  that  perhaps  out  of  such  training  as  she  had  given 
was  Billy  born  quixotic,  patient,  faithful,  but  unstable 
and  incapable  of  beating  down  a  private  sorrow  by  the 
hard  iron  flail  of  work  and  enterprise.  Yet  against 
such  a  conviction  Mrs.  Knyvett  fought  tooth  and  nail. 

"Billy's  his  father  over  again,"  she  said;  "you  know 
we  only  had  a  year  of  married  life  together  and  then 
he  died,  but  not  before  I  had  learnt  one  thing  about 
him — that  he  had  that  sort  of  legal  mind  which  sees 
both  sides  of  a  question  so  clearly  that  it  always 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  179 

weighs  tilings  equally,  which  always  sees  so  much  good 
in  things  as  they  are,  so  much  possible  evil  in  re- 
forms that  it  never  does  anything  at  all.  That's  Billy 
all  over,  except  when  you  set  him  down  with  some 
big  job  which  just  has  to  be  done,  some  gulf  that 
must  be  spanned,  some  country  opened  up.  There 
isn  't  any  room  for  doubt  in  work  like  that.  That 's  why 
he's  ready  to  fly  half  round  the  world  and  look  for 
fairy  gold  to  make  Peter  Westlake  happy ! ' ' 

She  laughed  bitterly  at  her  own  fierce  jibes,  while 
Margaret  crossed  the  room  and  stood  leaning  on  the 
mantelpiece  with  her  head  on  her  crossed  hands. 

"And  what  about  Archer  Bellew?"  asked  she  at 
last  in  curiously  cold,  indifferent  tones.  "He's  very 
much  like  the  thirteenth  guest,  isn't  he,  in  every  story 
where  he  intervenes?" 

"The  man  is  a  thing  to  shrink  from,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Knyvett  vigorously.  "If  there  were  no  other  reason 
in  the  world  against  my  meddling  in  this  business,  there 
would  be  one  in  this — that  I  could  scarcely  keep  myself 
from  joining  in  any  plan  that  would  rid  a  decent  woman 
of  that  ghoul.  Sara  Hereford's  no  particular  favour- 
ite of  mine,  but  she  doesn't  deserve  that  fate,  any- 
way. ' ' 

Margaret  laughed  outright  at  her  vehemence. 

"He's  only  a  thing  that  results  from  the  theory  of 
Art  for  Art's  sake,  Esther.  And  the  girls  he  studies 
are  only  martyrs  on  that  altar  after  all.  I  myself  am 
perhaps  the  one  person  in  the  world  who  knows  the 
very  worst  that  can  be  said  against  Archer  Bellew. ' ' 

"Fiddlesticks!  Altar  of  art,  indeed,  altar  of  his  own 
selfish  unmanliness!  He  turns  them  inside  out  for  his 
own  benefit,  if  that's  what  you  mean  by  Art  for  Art's 
sake  and  then  goes  away  and  tells  what  he  knows.  Fifty 
times  better  if  he  played  Tom  Jones  or  Don  Juan,  or 
whatever  you  call  it,  with  them.  There,  it's  out!  I'm 
no  prude,  as  you  know,  Margaret,  but  I  suppose  that's 


180  WINGS  OF  DESIKE 

the  most  immoral  thing  I've  ever  said  in  my  life.  But 
this  is  the  age  for  saying  what  everybody  thinks  but 
nobody  dares  to  say.  Which  is  an  Irish  bull  and  no 
mistake,"  she  added,  with  her  loud  laugh  learnt  in  the 
open  air.  "He's  no  man,  for  he's  ashamed  to  risk 
the  consequences  of  manliness.  Tell  you  what,  Mar- 
garet, if  I  were  to  go  down  there  I  should  just  try  to 
saddle  him  with  one  of  the  biggest  scandals  ever  heard 
of.  I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  child  play  with  fire 
but  what  I  wanted  him  to  get  burnt  a  bit,  so  as  to 
teach  him.  Master  Archer  would  be  the  better  for  the 
lesson  Fidgety  Phil  wanted. ' ' 

If  ever  an  elderly  Puck  in  a  chignon  waxed  merry 
over  a  mortal's  mishap,  it  was  Mrs.  Knyvett  then. 

"And,  oh,  Margaret,"  she  added,  "a  good  scandal 
would  save  Billy  by  freeing  Sara. ' ' 

"Not  in  the  present  state  of  the  law,"  said  Margaret 
gravely;  "you  must  remember  that,  as  yet,  mere  infi- 
delity on  the  husband's  side  is  part  of  the  added  burden 
which  the  English  law  lays  on  the  shoulders  of  woman 
by  way  of  strengthening  what  it  is  pleased  to  call  the 
weaker  vessel.  Only  desertion  by  Archer  and  refusal 
of  conjugal  rights,  as  well  as  unfaithfulness  by  him, 
would  free  her. ' ' 

"Crawl  at  his  feet  and  be  refused  perhaps!  Why, 
even  I  wouldn't  ask  that  of  Sara,  not  even  for  Billy's 
sake.  No,  it 's  no  use  my  going  down. ' ' 

"You,"  cried  Margaret,  "to  talk  like  this!  Why, 
you're  like  a  horse  that  shies  at  a  fence.  I've  never 
known  you  shirk  a  disagreeable  duty  before." 

"This  is  beyond  nature,  Margaret,  and  I  can't  do 
it;  I  don't  feel  it  incumbent  on  me  to  sacrifice  anybody 
needlessly,  uselessly,  and  least  of  all  myself," 

Margaret  sat  in  a  kind  of  dream,  knowing  instinc- 
tively that  she  was  nearing  her  own  fence,  knowing  also 
that  she  would  certainly  take  it.  For  Mrs.  Knyvett 
was  moving  in  the  dark,  unaware  of  the  problems 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  181 

actually  facing  her.  It  seemed  a  crime,  therefore,  for 
a  friend  to  keep  silence,  however  hard  speech  might 
be,  however  harmful  in  its  consequences.  That  last 
thought  gave  pause,  however,  for  surely  speech  would 
be  wrong  were  the  consequences  inevitably  disastrous? 
But  of  consequences  she  could  really  say  nothing  defi- 
nite, for  her  everything  must  be  flung  into  the  melting- 
pot  of  character  and  no  one  could  tell  with  absolute 
certainty  what  metal  would  emerge  from  that  cauldron. 
The  hardest  thing  to  contemplate  was  the  knowledge 
that  in  all  probability  the  relationship  between  herself 
and  Mrs.  Knyvett  would  be  completely  altered  by  what 
she  had  to  say,  deepened,  perhaps,  but  never  quite  the 
same  again. 

In  matters  such  as  this  one  refers  instinctively  to  liter- 
ary tastes;  in  Mrs.  Knyvett 's  opinion  Anthony  Trollope, 
with  his  motive  springs  of  money  and  position,  gave 
for  outside  purposes  a  true  enough  picture  of  life;  for 
heights  and  depths  she  went  to  George  Meredith,  though 
even  such  a  flame-like  passion  as  his,  in  her  eyes,  clouded 
the  perfect  noonday  of  his  genius. 

To  a  woman  like  this  it  was  peculiarly  difficult  to 
say  what  must  be  said.  Yet  Margaret  knew,  as  we  all 
know  the  unspoken  truth,  that  for  the  sake  of  friend- 
ship Mrs.  Knyvett  had  already  pardoned  in  her  that 
kinship  with  things  primitive  and  vital  which  to  some 
minds  merely  signifies  power  and  to  others  is  the 
one  thing  anathema  to  their  trained  and  civilised  in- 
stincts. So,  trusting  herself  to  that  fact  like  one  sway- 
ing down  a  cliff  by  a  rope,  she  began  to  free  her  con- 
science of  the  perilous  stuff  it  bore. 

"Esther,"  said  she,  "you  know  people  often  wonder 
why  I  am  alone.  I  don't  know  why  they  should  when 
there  are  so  many  unmarried  women  nowadays,  but  they 
do.  Yet  I  suppose  we  all  know  things,  though  We  pre- 
tend we  don't.  Perhaps  everybody  guesses  that  once 
I  had — a  bad  break." 


182  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Mrs.  Knyvett  kept  silence,  for  she  had  guessed  it  cer- 
tainly. 

"Why,"  asked  she  at  length,  "are  you  talking  like 
this  now?  Has  it  anything  to  do  with  this  matter  of 
mine?" 

"Yes,"  said  Margaret  quietly,  "it  has  everything 
to  do  with  it  and  I  think  you  ought  to  know.  Else 
you  will  be  working  in  the  dark.  It  explains  many 
things." 

She  began  restlessly  to  move  about  the  room. 

"Must  you  tell  me,  Margaret?" 

* '  Yes,  I  must, ' '  answered  she  quite  decidedly. 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I'd 
rather  not  know,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

"Because  you  think  it  would  spoil  your  feeling  for 
me?" 

"No,  nothing  could  possibly  do  that.  If  you'd  com- 
mitted a  murder,  I'd — " 

"Come  and  stay  with  me  the  night  before  my  exe- 
cution. Yes,  I  know.  But  then  I  can  quite  imagine 
your  approving  of  a  murder,  but  this — is  different. 
But  I  must,  Esther,  I  must  tell  you.  I  don't  feel  that 
it  can  possibly  be  right  for  me  to  keep  quiet  any  longer. ' ' 

"Well?"  asked  Mrs.  Knyvett.  She  guessed,  of 
course,  by  now  what  Margaret  had  to  tell,  but  not  pre- 
cisely the  manner  of  its  telling. 

The  room  was  dark  and  quiet.  Margaret  moved  from 
her  seat,  set  a  match  to  the  fire  and  watched  the  flame 
creep  along  the  newspaper  behind  the  lower  bar.  Even 
now  she  was  not  quite  sure  that  she  was  going  to  take 
the  plunge.  She  wanted  something  outside  herself  to 
decide,  and  so  made  up  her  mind  that  if  the  flame 
caught  the  wood,  it  should  be  kismet;  she  would  speak. 
Yet,  even  while  she  watched,  her  mind  was  perfectly 
certain  that  the  lever  she  held  in  her  hand  would  move 
Mrs.  Knyvett  to  act,  and  act  decidedly.  It  would  alter 
the  whole  complexion  of  things  in  her  eyes.  She  could 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  183 

not  have  told  why  in  so  many  words;  it  was  only  in- 
stinct that  guided  her,  the  same  primeval  thing  which 
teaches  a  dog  to  swim  that  has  never  before  seen  a  river. 

The  wood  caught,  gave  out  a  hiss  and  burnt  on. 
Margaret  sat  down  and  placed  her  hands  on  her  crossed 
knees.  She  would  not  have  minded  telling  this  story 
to  a  man  half  so  much,  since  it  would  merely  have 
brought  him  over  to  her  side.  For  hers  was  a  weakness 
that  men  pardon  by  instinct,  though  by  reason  they 
condemn.  It  is  the  other  way  round  with  a  woman. 

"Just  twelve  years  ago,"  she  began,  "there  was  in 
a  "West  country  fishing  town  a  young  man  beginning  to 
get  his  foot  on  the  ladder  as  a  sketch  writer,  a  novel- 
ist of  sorts.  There  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
painter,  a  woman  of  thirty-two  who  was  a  few  years 
older  than  he.  Then  it  so  happened  that  their  work 
sent  them  both  to  a  midland  town,  she  to  sketch,  he  to 
write  a  series  of  articles  for  a  London  daily.  He  hated 
all  that  hack  work,  oh,  how  he  hated  it.  He  always 
wanted  to  do  exactly  the  thing  that  nobody  would  take. 
She  knew,  for  they  were  engaged.  He  hated  it  so  much 
that  for  a  whole  twelve  months  he  worked  as  a  clerk  in 
a  bank.  But  he  hated  that  worse  than  ever,  for  he 
wanted  to  be  free  as  the  birds  of  the  air.  And  every- 
body knew  how  he  felt;  he  made  no  secret  of  it  what- 
ever. They  remembered  this  when  money  was  missing 
that  could  not  be  traced.  It  was  thought  that  he  had 
taken  it,  mainly  perhaps  because  he  was  a  stranger  and 
had  been  taken  on  rather  carelessly,  it  seemed.  And 
there  were  other  reasons  why  they  should  think  it. 
They  did  not  arrest,  for  they  had  no  actual  proof.  Be- 
sides, he  was  a  favourite  with  the  manager.  But  they 
waited  and  the  cloud  of  suspicion  gathered.  The  only 
strange  thing  was  that  he  did  not  bolt.  That  was 
strange,  of  course,  if  he  were  guilty." 

"This  was  Archer  Bellew?" 

"Yes,  Archer  Bellew,  before  he  struck  ile   with  a 


184  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

book  that  caught  the  fancy  of  the  public.  It  was  in 
a  midland  town  that  it  happened.  There  were  great 
trees  on  the  old  arrow-slit  walls  of  it.  They  used  to 
send  showers  of  yellow  leaves  across  the  river.  That 
was  glassy,  like  a  mirror.  You  could  scarcely  tell  which 
way  it  was  flowing.  His  descriptions  of  rivers  mirror- 
ing trees  are  wonderful.  He  learnt  to  write  them  in 
that  town,  from  that  river.  It  always  seemed  autumn 
there." 

She  was  like  a  sleep-walker.  Mrs.  Knyvett  leant  her 
head  on  her  hand  and  watched  her  curiously. 

"Then — the  woman.  His  sitting-room  was  on  the 
ground  floor  of  the  house  where  he  lodged.  One  night, 
when  all  the  town  was  talking  and  she  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  she  hid  and  waited  till  it  was  late.  There  was 
a  green-latticed  door  with  laurels  at  the  side  of  the 
house.  A  little,  suburban,  semi-detached  place.  The 
long  French  windows  of  his  room  were  ajar.  And  there 
he  sat  staring  straight  in  front  of  him.  Not  moving 
at  all. 

"It  was  his  face.  Not  human.  Hopeless.  To  wipe 
that  look  off  his  face,  that  was  all.  A  clock  struck.  She 
counted  the  strokes,  but  could  not  finish.  I  don't  know 
what  the  hour  was,  but  late,  very  late,  and  silent.  The 
world  seemed  to  be  dead  still.  Then  she  pushed  open 
the  door.  He  did  not  help  her. 

' '  He  was  her  man  and  she  had  to  wipe  that  look  from 
his  face.  She  knew  how  to  do  it,  for  Nature  taught 
her.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  mothers  were  behind 
her,  you  see.  They  had  bred  her,  had  made  her  what 
she  was.  She  knew  what  she  had  to  do.  She  did  it — 
played  the  courtesan  with  the  heart  of  a  mother.  Only 
just  to  wipe  that  look  away !  To  do  that  she  would  have 
cut  herself  in  bits,  to  give  herself  was  nothing.  That 
was  the  way  of  it. 

' '  He  was  asleep  when  she  left,  asleep  like  a  child.  He 
had  not  slept  for  nights.  All  the  rest  were  like  baying 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  185 

hounds,  but  she  put  herself  between  him  and  them. 
Night  after  night  she  kept  the  heart  in  him.  Nobody 
knew,  nobody  has  ever  known.  Then  they  found  that 
he  was  innocent." 

"And  the  woman?     She  cared?" 

"Not  much.  She  had  thought  him  guilty  all  the 
time.  That  didn't  make  any  difference  to  her,  you  see," 

"And  then?" 

"And  then — she  waited.  She  had  done  her  part. 
But  he  avoided  her,  pretended  not  to  see  her,  would 
turn  down  side  streets.  At  last — it  was  weeks  later 
in  the  same  room.  Only  winter — clear  and  moonlight. 
Icy,  the  air  tingling  with  frost.  The  garden  light  as 
day.  The  panes  glittering.  Then  she  asked  him,  asked 
him  point-blank,  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  waited, 
stifled.  'Plenty  of  time  for  that,  my  dear,'  he  said. 
'We'll  talk  about  that  later.  Besides,  a  man  doesn't 
care  to  marry  a  spoilt  thing.' 

"That  was  all.  But  he  must  have  been  nervous,  for 
his  hand  slipped.  He  had  been  standing  with  his  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  waving  a  stick.  It  slipped 
somehow  and  broke  the  glass  in  a  thousand  atoms.  I 
heard  its  tinkling  fall.  'A  man  doesn't  care  to  marry 
a  spoilt  thing.'  I  never  hear  glass  fall  now  without 
hearing  that,  too." 

She  sat  quite  still,  her  face  working,  her  eyes  down- 
cast, while  Mrs.  Knyvett  watched  her.  Then  she  lifted 
her  eyes  for  the  first  time  during  the  whole  story  and 
smiled.  She  was  just  a  child  now. 

"You  know,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  quietly,  "it  wasn't 
really  true  that  she  was  spoilt.  You  don't  think  so 
now,  do  you?" 

Margaret's  eyes  leapt,  for  her  friend  had  answered  to 
the  call. 

"No,"  she  said.  "No.  Afterwards  I  was  glad  that 
when  the  summons  came  I  had  had  it  in  me  to  answer 
it."  She  laughed  tremulously.  "It  sounds  like  an 


186  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

episcopal  acceptance  of  a  benefice,  doesn't  it?  But  it 
altered  everything." 

"Ah,  yes." 

"There  seemed  an  unseen  bar  between  herself  and 
men.  She  knew  why.  They  didn't,  but  she  felt  it 
always.  That  was  the  way  of  it.  Then  she  went  away 
to  Paris  and  worked.  She  felt  glad  then  that  she  had 
some  money,  held  the  whip  hand  of  him  in  one  way. 
She  felt  cruel  in  those  days.  But  he  triumphed  in  the 
end,  for,  though  you  won't  recognise  him,  he  is  a  great 
constructive  force." 

But  Mrs.  Knyvett  cared  not  a  straw  for  the  plaudits 
of  the  critics. 

"And  so  that  was  Archer  Bellew  as  a  young  man  ? ' '  she 
said. 

"That  was  Archer  Bellew  as  a  young  man.  He  was 
twenty-eight  then  and  I  thirty-two." 

"Margaret,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knyvett  with  convic- 
tion, "you  love  the  man  still." 

"I  don't  know,  Esther.  I've  never  seen  him  since. 
But  when  I  am  by  myself  I  simply  cannot  bear  to  be 
in  the  same  room  with  a  humming  bluebottle,  for  the 
sound  brings  back  the  summer  when  I  was  so  happy  with 
him.  I  can  see  the  long  white  dusty  roads  with  the 
wild  tangle  of  hedge  on  either  side.  I  can  hear  how  the 
wind  blew  through  the  trees  when  he  was  there.  I 
always  dread  the  open  days  of  spring,  the  wide  light, 
and  the  wild  growth.  They  are  such  a  contrast  to  our 
grey  weariness." 

"Margaret,  Margaret,  after  all  these  years,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Knyvett.  Her  hand  looked  brown  as  a  nut 
amid  the  white  tangle  of  hair  that  now  lay  against  her 
knee.  "Sara  Hereford!  Sara  Hereford!"  she  ex- 
claimed contemptuously,  "when  in  the  world  did  she 
feel  he  was  her  man?  And  if  she  did,  there  isn't  blood 
enough  in  her  veins  to  give  what  you  gave." 

Suddenly  Margaret  Rossiter  looked  up. 


THE  UNDYING  PAST  187 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  I'm  not  really  sorry 
it  happened.  Or  rather,  I  've  often  wondered  whether 
I  am.  For  you  see,  if  I'd  married  him  in  the  ordinary 
way  I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  been  a  real  painter 
at  all.  I  couldn't  possibly  then  have  given  all  my 
strength  and  all  my  thoughts  to  my  work  as  I  can  now. 
It's  husband  and  child  to  me.  I've  never  had  anything 
else.  And  it's  taught  me  all  I  know." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  acknowledged  the  truth  of  this,  as  she 
thought  of  the  gallery  of  homely,  truthful  pictures  of 
the  school  of  Josef  Israels  that  bore  Margaret  Rossiter's 
name. 

"And,"  said  Margaret  again,  "I  don't  really  misun- 
derstand how  now,  though  I  did  then.  He  is  one  who 
hates  above  all  things  to  be  bound,  so  that  he  was  driven 
to  repudiate  even  Nature's  tie.  It  was  quite  natural, 
of  course,  that  he  should  hate  me.  I  had  shown  him 
his  own  weakness.  I  had,  as  it  were,  shamed  his  man- 
hood. A  woman  ought  never  to  do  that  to  a  man.  Oh, 
yes,  I  understand  him  now.  Nor,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  do  I  care  a  fig  for  all  the  other  women  about 
whom  one  hears  gossip.  They  don't  seem  to  matter. 
They  're  only  shadows,  even  Sara  Hereford! ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Sara ! ' '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knyvett  contemptuously, 
nor  paused  to  explain  her  tone.  "But,"  she  con- 
tinued, "what  I'm  trying  to  get  at  is  why  you  told  me 
just  now.  Oh,  I  understand  the  immediate  reason.  You 
wouldn't  keep  anything  in  the  background  that  I  didn't 
know.  Also  you  want  me  to  go  down  to  Devonshire; 
that  I  saw  from  the  first.  But  there's  a  deeper  reason 
than  all  that.  "What  was  it,  I  wonder. ' ' 

"Not,"  said  Margaret,  "what  you're  thinking  now. 
I'm  looking  forward  to  no  re-shuffle  of  the  cards.  It's 
too  late  for  that.  True,  I  count  myself  his  wife,  and 
not  Sara  Hereford,  because  I've  done  all  for  him  a 
woman  could,  more  than  she  ever  has.  But  we  can't 
get  back  the  years  the  locust  has  eaten.  I'm  changed. 


188  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Thought,  you  know,  is  just  like  a  disease  that  preys  on 
the  looks,  though  in  some  eyes  it  makes  one  more  at- 
tractive. But  not  in  Archer's.  He  always  liked 
youth,  rosebud  lips  and  soft  hair.  He  was  that  sort  of 
man.  I  thought  when  I  saw  Sara  Hereford  once  that 
she  was  always  too  mature  for  him." 

Before  Mrs.  Knyvett  left,  Margaret  bethought  herself 
of  the  one  good  that  comes  out  of  trouble ;  she  had  learnt 
the  worth  of  a  friend.  And  Mrs.  Knyvett  gave  forth 
no  uncertain  sound,  for  she  knew  the  difference  between 
truth  and  falsehood,  nor  had  the  world's  conventions 
any  power  to  bind  her  sympathies.  For  once,  literary 
tastes  had  been  misleading,  or  rather,  as  is  the  case 
with  many  people,  Mrs.  Knyvett 's  instincts  ran  far 
ahead  of  her  intelligence. 

Alone  once  more,  Margaret  Rossiter  sat  on  in  the  dark- 
ening studio,  now  only  lit  by  the  fireglow  and  the  light 
Mrs.  Knyvett  had  insisted  on  switching  on  above  the 
new  picture.  She  knew  why  that  had  been  done  and 
even  smiled  a  little  through  the  tears  that  spotted  the 
front  of  her  silver-grey  dress  with  the  ruffles  on  the 
close-fitting  sleeves.  It  was  for  her  comfort,  since 
the  picture  was  a  beautiful  thing  and  she  the  maker  of  it. 

Yet  she  wanted  the  thing  she  had  not.  Pictures  were 
good ;  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  know  she  had  something 
to  say  and  could  say  it.  Yet  what  changeless  things  are 
works  of  art!  They  cannot  grow,  develop,  alter  and 
unfold. 

She  was  very  glad  Sara  Hereford  had  no  children; 
nothing  pleased  her  better  than  that,  not  even  the 
sheepfold  bathed  in  luminous  glow,  as  she  slipped  a 
hand  inside  her  dress  beneath  the  warm  white  chalice  of 
her  breast. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL:  IN  THIS  CASE  THE  FISHERMAN 
SETS  HIS  NET  AND  MRS.  KNYVETT  PLAYS  A  GAME  OF 
CELESTIAL  PATIENCE 

WHEN  Mrs.  Knyvett  had  once  come  to  a  decision 
she  never  allowed  the  grass  to  grow  under  her 
feet.  Besides,  in  this  case,  there  was  upon  her  the 
haste  with  which  one  rushes  into  a  job  one  would  fain 
put  behind  one. 

Her  first  move  was  to  drive  to  Mudie's,  where  she 
electrified  the  attendant  by  an  order  such  as  he  had 
never  in  his  life  before  received  from  an  elderly  lady 
whose  library  lists  had  always  hitherto  been  compiled 
with  extreme  propriety.  Nor  did  she  diminish  his 
amazement  when  she  explained  that  her  purpose  was  to 
"read  up"  erotic  morbidity,  speaking  in  exactly  the 
same  tones  that  a  Civil  Service  student  might  use  in 
referring  to  Tamil  or  a  branch  of  the  craft  of  forestry. 
Ultimately  she  departed,  bearing  a  packet  of  books 
which  should  have  raised  the  blush  of  shame  to  her 
elderly  brows.  This  they  did  not  do,  however,  for  hav- 
ing glanced  through  them  cursorily,  she  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  their  authors  had  not  even  a  bowing 
acquaintance  with  life  and  besides,  "she  knew  much 
worse  things  than  that"  from  reality. 

Once  on  board  the  Pendragon,  there  was  not  much 
likelihood  that  she  would  continue  her  erotic  studies 
for,  as  Margaret  Rossiter  had  expected,  she  began  to 
be  intrigued  by  the  situation.  With  the  quickness  of  a 
woman  of  the  world  she  grasped  her  cue,  which  was 
to  act  as  a  freshening  wind  of  change.  For  the  sea  on 

189 


190  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

which  these  people  were  now  afloat  was  little  better  than 
the  doldrums  where  day  by  day  the  weary  sun  looks 
down  on  a  glassy  sea. 

"Billy's  ill,"  she  said  curtly  to  Peter  Westlake,  "and 
something's  got  to  be  done." 

The  two  were  alone  in  the  yacht  saloon. 

"Why  in  the  world  aren't  you  away  long  before 
this  ?  Here  you  hang  on  month  after  month  in  a  place 
that  for  Billy  is  no  better  than  a  pest-house.  Why 
aren't  you  bucaneering,  or  mining,  or  whatever  it  is 
you  think  you  are  going  to  get  out  of  that  Bodinar, 
who's  no  better  than  a  knave  that  prefers  to  idle 
about  on  a  yacht  to  doing  an  honest  day's  work  on  a 
collier?" 

She  spoke  angrily,  for  she  always  regarded  Peter  as 
a  sort  of  satellite  whose  business  in  life  it  was  to  circle 
round  Billy  carrying  attendant  comforts,  just  as  Billy, 
in  his  turn,  circled  round  Sara. 

"We're  waiting  for  the  worst  of  the  Cape  Horn  winter 
to  be  over.  We  can't  possibly  be  there  till  the  end  of 
September  at  earliest." 

Just  then  Billy  put  his  head  in  and  announced  his  in- 
tention of  going  ashore.  The  state  cabin  was  already 
littered  with  Mrs.  Knyvett's  luggage,  chiefly  kit-bag 
affairs,  for  she  was  an  old  campaigner,  and  had  already 
given  orders  to  Cornelius  never  to  approach  her  with 
any  tea  save  China  and  never  to  serve  that  without  dry 
toast.  When  the  thresh  of  the  oars  had  receded  into 
the  distance,  Mrs.  Knyvett  relaxed  and  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"I've  never  seen  him  like  this  before,"  she  said,  "for 
he's  strained  almost  to  breaking-point.  What  about 
the  nights  now,  for  you  ought  to  know  since  you  sleep 
aboard?" 

Then  Peter  told  her,  for  he  had  been  acting  as  Mr. 
Knyvett's  secretary  for  the  last  few  weeks.  There  was 
talk,  indeed,  of  finding  him  work  on  the  Knyvett  es- 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  191 

tates,  should  the  cruise  of  the  Pendragon  fail  to  make 
him  a  rich  man. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Mrs.  Knyvett,  as  she  listened;  "yes. 
Just  as  I  thought.  Now,  what  the  devil,  Peter,  have 
you  been  about  to  let  things  come  to  this  pass  ? ' ' 

"I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  I  have  done  my  best, 
my  very  best.  In  fact,  I  wrote  you — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  tapping  her  foot 
angrily,  "and  wrote  about  as  effectively  as  though  you 
had  been  hammering  in  coffin  nails  with  a  hair  brush. 
Now  tell  me  the  exact  position,  as  far  as  you  know  it. ' ' 

Peter  wiped  his  forehead  and  told  what  he  knew, 
which  was  not  much,  though  what  he  guessed  was  a  great 
deal. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  sat  in  silence  for  a  long  while  when  he 
had  done.  She  was  thinking  out  probabilities  and  read- 
ing what  he  was  able  to  tell  her  in  the  light  of  her  own 
knowledge.  She  remembered  that  she  had  proved  to 
her  son  as  a  lad,  how  false  is  the  so-called  manliness 
that  satisfies  its  basest  appetites  at  the  cost  of  the  weak, 
how  to  call  a  thing  gold  when  it  is  really  nothing  but 
smut  is  one  of  the  most  foolish  things  in  the  world. 

It  was,  in  its  way,  a  dreadful  moment  of  reckoning 
through  which  she  went  while  Peter  sat  opposite  her, 
his  perplexed  eyes  screwed  up,  his  affectionate  heart 
full  of  self-blame.  For  her  son  was  in  part,  especially 
in  the  way  in  which  he  looked  at  women,  what  she  had 
made  him.  With  a  squaring  of  her  broad  shoulders  she 
adjusted  the  burden  of  responsibility.  And  her  knowl- 
edge of  what  she  had  made  taught  her  the  exact  manner 
in  which  he  approached  this  crisis. 

The  one  thing  he  had  determined  on  was  that,  on  no 
pretext  whatever,  would  he  force  Sara,  or  carry  her  off 
her  feet.  She  should  not  feel,  in  after  years,  that  what 
she  had  done  had  been  by  outer  compulsion,  or  fierce 
betrayal  through  another's  passion.  The  one  thing,  as 
Mrs.  Knyvett  knew  well,  that  her  son  could  not  bear 


192  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

was  to  feel  he  had  smirched  by  any  urgency  of  his 
own  impatience  the  blamelessness  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  If  ever  Sara  came  to  him,  it  must  be  by  her  own 
volition,  because  she  thought  it  right  and  wise  to  come 
and  not  through  any  weak  surrender  to  passion's  claim. 
So  he  held  himself  with  an  iron  hand. 

And  Billy's  mother,  who  had  taught  her  son  that  a 
woman  was  an  individuality  that  must  choose  her  own 
way,  was  perforce  obliged  to  bow  to  the  justice  of  his 
decision. 

"Peter,"  said  she  at  last,  "you  and  I  care  very  much 
for  Billy,  don't  we?" 

Peter  nodded;  he  was  a  man  of  few  words  and  very 
simple  thoughts,  but  Mrs.  Knyvett,  being  a  simple  per- 
son herself,  understood  him  very  well. 

"I  want  you  to  answer  me  a  question,"  she  con- 
tinued. "You  used  to  run  a  sort  of  mission  hall  for 
seamen  and  are  by  way  of  being  a  religious  man.  You 
know  how  my  son  is  situated  and  how  Mrs.  Bellew  has 
her  troubles,  though  you  don't  quite  know  all  the  com- 
plexities of  that  affair.  Now  what  in  your  opinion 
ought  to  be  done?  The  people  in  question  are  tied  up 
all  wrong.  Anybody  can  see  that  with  half  an  eye. 
Are  they  tied  for  ever?  And  is  it  by  the  moral  law 
or  only  by  what  happens  to  be  the  law  of  England  ? ' ' 

Peter  was  silent  because  he  had  been  beating  his 
head  against  the  wall  of  this  problem  over  and  over 
again.  But  the  inexorable  questioner  persisted,  mainly 
because  she  regarded  Mr.  Westlake  as  representing  the 
conventional  religious  mind. 

"And  if  this  prohibition  is  based  on  the  moral  law, 
Peter,  where  does  that  come  from?  Does  it  rest  on 
what  is  good  for  man  and  woman,  on  utility,  or  is  it 
merely  a  stone  tablet  tumbling  down  out  of  the  blue 
from  some  sphere  where  things  are  judged  by  a  standard 
we  cannot  understand  ? ' ' 

Peter  was  not  as  conventional  as  he  seemed.     Few 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  193 

people  are,  in  fact,  when  once  you  prick  below  the  skin 
of  what  they  imagine  other  people  regard  as  fitting,  but 
there  was  one  thing  that  was  sacrosanct  to  him  and  that 
was  the  letter  of  the  Scriptures. 

"I  don't  think  we  ought  to  use  sacred  phrases 
lightly,"  said  he,  "for  one  never  knows  what  things 
they  stand  for.  Only  the  other  day  I  was  reading  about 
all  the  beautiful  ideas  that  are  meant  by  such  a  verse 
as  that  which  tells  how  the  sun  stood  still  over  Ajalon." 

Peter  had  approached  Christianity  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  wordless  yet  instinctive  poet.  Something, 
too,  of  the  scholar's  instinct  was  his.  Before  Mr. 
Knyvett  had  helped  him  to  breathe  the  air  of  a  wider 
world,  his  religion  had  been  the  one  power  that  had  suf- 
ficed to  release  him  from  the  straight  bonds  of  his  daily 
round  of  folios  and  ledgers.  His  sense  of  beauty  had 
fed  for  years  on  Hebrew  imagery,  his  imagination  on 
the  idyllic  sweetness  of  the  cloudless  Syrian  blue.  From 
childhood,  ever  since  the  days  when  he  had  pored  over 
the  old  wood-cuts  in  a  family  Bible,  he  had  been  steeped 
in  the  biblical  atmosphere.  He  would  quote  a  sonorous 
phrase  from  the  Authorised  Version  with  the  same  ap- 
preciation of  its  cadence  as  a  classic  scholar  might  bring 
to  the  chased  metal  work  of  a  passage  from  Virgil.  In 
the  stern  old-fashioned  nonconformist  household  where 
he  had  been  bred  the  only  piece  of  great  literature  to  be 
found  was  the  Bible.  And  could  his  father  have  known 
that  the  boy  was  sucking  honeyed  wine  of  loveliness 
from  the  very  altar  vessels  themselves,  he  would  only 
have  adjudged  it  to  be  one  more  proof  of  the  malig- 
nancy of  the  ever-present  evil  which  surrounds  us  here 
below. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  stared  in  amazement.  She  recognised 
his  devotion  to  Billy  with  all  the  clear  sight  which 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  shewing  when  we  recognise 
a  fact  that  is  useful.  But  she  had  no  more  supposed 
that  he  had  deep  hidden  inner  processes  than  if  he  had 


194  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

been  a  rabbit.  Then  she  seized  instinctively  on  the 
weakness  of  his  answer. 

' '  That 's  shirking  the  question, ' '  she  exclaimed.  ' '  The 
exact  words  I  used  don 't  matter  in  the  least.  The  point 
is  just  what  I  asked  you  a  minute  ago.  Ought  these 
two  people  to  free  themselves  or  not?  When  it's  quite 
clear  that  everyone  involved  is  deteriorating?  Now, 
Peter,  answer,  and  don't  attempt  to  draw  either  the 
sun  or  the  moon  like  a  red  herring  across  the  trail." 

Peter  wriggled  uneasily,  pained  once  more  at  the 
freedom  with  which  she  handled  tropes  so  hallowed. 
Yet  he  hedged  again : 

"But  are  they  deteriorating  really?  Can  anyone  be 
sure  of  that  ?  And  when  you  say  '  for  the  good  of  every- 
body concerned,'  how  can  we  be  sure  of  what  is  really 
good  for  them?" 

Mrs.  Knyvett  gazed  at  him  with  an  ironical  smile. 

"You  haven't  been  a  preacher  for  nothing,"  she 
remarked;  "you've  breathed  the  miasma  of  sophistry 
that  hangs  about  a  pulpit.  But  I  tell  you — and  you 
know  it's  true — that  Billy  isn't  doing  anything  to  jus- 
tify all  the  milk  he  drank  when  he  was  a  baby,  nor 
all  the  energy  that's  been  spent  in  educating  him,  nor  all 
the  wealth  that  has  been  poured  out  to  make  him  what 
he  is.  I  look  at  everything  from  the  economic  stand- 
point. The  money  that's  been  spent  on  making  Billy 
a  superfine  article  was  taken  from  some  other  youth. 
Oh,  yes,  deny  it  as  we  may,  it's  true;  so  much  poured 
out  on  the  rich  child  means  so  much  less  for  the  poor 
one.  And  by  the  dreadfulness  of  that  sum,  so  much 
the  more  stern  is  the  call  to  pay  back  in  service.  And 
he  isn't  paying  back.  That's  what  cuts  me  to  the 
heart." 

Her  lips  tightened  till  she  looked  the  image  of  one 
of  her  stern  old  forefathers  who  had  hanged  men  from 
their  ships'  yard-arms  for  neglect  of  duty. 

"Isn't  he  deteriorating?"  she  asked  bitterly.     "And 


THE  FLY  QN  THE  WHEEL  195 

Bellew?  Well,  I  loathe  the  fellow,  but  he's  going  from 
bad  to  worse.  And  what  about  the  girls  he  philanders 
after?  Poor,  paltry  little  things,  of  course,  but  isn't 
he  robbing  them  every  time  of  a  bit  of  their  womanli- 
ness? And  it  so  happens  that  I've  had  put  into  my 
hands  another  thread.  It  leads,  Peter,  straight  to  the 
woman  who  really  loves  him,  who  might  have  made  a 
man  of  him.  Heavens !  when  I  think  of  it  all,  I  want  to 
see  the  decree  made  absolute." 

Mr.  Westlake  was  silent;  so,  too,  did  he  in  that  inner 
heart  where,  once  in  a  way,  we  do  occasionally  look  at 
things  in  their  naked  reality. 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  frankly,  "I  don't  know 
that  it  will  make  much  difference  to  Bellew.  He  started 
as  a  cur,  and  if  he  were  the  only  person  concerned,  I 
shouldn't  distress  myself.  But  it's  Billy — it's  Billy." 

She  was  walking  up  and  down  with  hands  loosely 
clasped  behind  her  back. 

"Don't  you  think,"  asked  Peter  gently,  "that  we're 
not  looking  at  it  rightly?  After  all,  there  are  lots  of 
men  who  can  build  the  bridges  he  might  be  building, 
but  perhaps  out  of  these  trials,  these  testing  fires,  is 
being  made  a  finer  man  than  we  could  ever  make  if  we 
smoothed  things  for  him  ? " 

Mrs.  Knyvett  did  not  attempt  to  answer,  for  she  was 
too  wise  not  to  know  that  he  had  laid  his  finger  on  the 
doubt  which  waits  on  all  attempts  to  lighten  the  burden 
laid  on  the  backs  of  men  either  by  their  own  deeds,  or 
by  that  "act  of  God"  of  which  lawyers  speak.  She  was 
aware,  too,  of  her  own  weakness ;  knew  that  she  liked  to 
see  tangible  results  of  labour,  preferred  bridges  to  fresh 
ideas  and  good  drains  to  great  men. 

With  the  cowardice  of  one  who,  weighing  all  things, 
yet  cannot  decide,  she  fell  back  on  Sara.  For  what  it 
looks  like  to  her,  she  said  shrewdly,  is  what  will  settle 
it  all.  Billy  leaves  it  at  that  and  there  it  must  be  left. 
But  Mrs.  Knyvett  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  know 


196  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

whose  fate  would  weigh  the  more  heavily  in  Sara's 
reckoning — Archer's  or  her  son's.  She  had  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  Sara  regarded  Billy  as  candlestick  rather 
than  candle,  as  existing  more  for  her  own  benefit  than  his 
own. 

Then  she  dimissed  Peter  Westlake  and  sat  down,  as 
though  at  a  game,  to  place  out  on  the  table  all  the  actors 
in  the  puzzle.  She  actually  used  a  set  of  ivory  counters 
for  the  purpose  and  planned  them  out  before  her,  as 
though  she  were  an  Ibsen  visualising  the  scene  of  a  play. 
By  the  time  they  had  been  arranged  in  a  whimsical  pat- 
tern she  had  soothed  herself  into  the  light  and  easy  mood 
that  was  hers  habitually,  for  the  counters  took  the  place 
of  patience  cards  and  the  human  problem  became  a 
diabolical  "Miss  Milligan." 

Here,  in  the  centre,  she  placed,  not  Sara,  but  Vin 
Hereford.  He  assumed  in  Mrs.  Kny vett  's  inner  eye  the 
guise  of  an  Eastern  god  with  offspring  issuing,  by 
hermaphrodite  birth,  from  his  fruitful  loins.  Aloft  he 
sat,  a  bronze  creator  making  a  world  for  his  comfort. 
Then,  like  a  ball  swinging  round  him  by  a  cord  attached 
to  his  middle,  flew  Sara  and  Anne.  Round  Sara  cir- 
cled Billy  and  Bellew;  round  Anne,  Peter  Westlake. 
Like  a  Saturn's  ring  again  round  Bellew  spun  a  cloud 
of  girl  witnesses,  a  milky  way  of  waving  hair  and  bright 
eyes.  Minor  bodies,  cometary  in  nature,  such  as  old 
Elizabeth,  Pip  Hawkins  and  his  wife,  with  the  Bodi- 
nars,  came  whirling  from  the  stellar  depths,  drawn  for 
a  brief  space  within  the  attraction  of  this  new  Copernican 
system.  Herself  she  had  not  placed,  the  omission  struck 
her  suddenly,  and  holding  a  forefinger  above  the  coun- 
ters, she  plumped  it  quickly  down  and  traced  a  circle 
with  it — round  her  son.  She  was  a  satellite;  Billy,  a 
planet;  Sara,  a  sun.- 

For  a  second  the  throe  of  a  pain  she  had  imagined  to 
be  dead  long  ago  darted  through  her;  all  the  love  and 
care  she  had  poured  out  had  only  worked  to  this  end. 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  197 

Suddenly,  disgusted  with  her  foolish  occupation,  she 
swept  her  hand  across  the  counters  till  they  lay  on  the 
table  like  the  dead  on  a  battle-field.  But  none  the  less 
the  image  they  had  created  remained  in  her  mind. 

"Now,"  said  she  to  herself,  "I  shall  go  and  call  on 
the  primum-mobile  of  the  system,  old  Vin.  For  what 
I  have  to  do  is  simply  to  get  these  people  really  into  my 
head,  to  know  their  weak  points  and  their  strong. ' ' 

Then  it  occurred  to  her  that,  with  the  fullest  intention 
of  keeping  an  open  mind,  she,  too,  was  being  sucked 
into  the  whirlpool  that  centred  round  those  dilettante 
folk,  the  Herefords.  More  than  that,  like  everyone  else 
except  humble  Peter  Westlake,  she  was,  although  a  mere 
fly  on  the  wheel,  imagining  herself  to  be  the  decisive 
element  in  the  story. 

She  found  Mr.  Hereford  in  a  great  state  of  delight, 
for  there  had  just  reached  him  a  piece  of  Japanese 
landscape  after  the  school  of  Hokusai.  Not  only  was 
he  charmed  with  the  picture  itself  but  it  had  suggested 
to  him  an  idea  which  he  proceeded  to  develop  to  Mrs. 
Knyvett  at  great  length.  He  was  convinced  that  one 
of  the  reasons  for  the  present  unhealthy  condition  of 
the  national  nerves  was  that  everyone  neglected  the 
macrocosm  for  the  microcosm;  people  nowadays  pored 
so  intently  over  the  internal  world  of  their  own  minds 
that  the  outside  world  of  lands  and  seas  remained  to 
them  a  terra  incognita.  Of  course  he  assumed,  without 
mentioning  the  fact,  that  people  of  his  own  sort  made 
up  the  civilised  world;  sailors,  travellers  and  the  great 
mass  of  common  workers  were,  in  his  eyes,  of  no  more 
account  than  so  many  flies. 

Except  in  the  pages  of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  Mr.  Hereford 
had  never  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Japanese,  but 
now,  with  the  phrase  "the  soul  of  a  people"  constantly 
on  his  lips,  he  discoursed  in  the  style  of  a  professor  on 
the  Art  of  the  East.  He  belonged  to  that  ever  increas- 
ing class  of  people  whose  mental  joys  spring  from  the 


198  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

fluid,  soporific  influences  of  some  vaguely  apprehended 
place  or  time  with  which  they  can  have  no  personal 
acquaintance.  He  would  shiver  like  a  fretful  child  at 
the  hoar  frost  of  an  English  winter,  but  revel  in  imag- 
inative delight  over  the  bleakness  of  the  Polar  ice;  to 
him  the  burgesses  of  Dartmouth  were  mere  vulgar  cits, 
but  the  petty  quarrels  of  some  mediaeval  city  caused 
him  a  thrill  of  genuine  delight.  Literally,  Mr.  Here- 
ford's pleasure  ''never  was  at  home";  what  is  to  the 
ordinary  man  a  mere  relief  from  the  apprehended 
monotony  of  his  actual  days  had  become  to  old  Vin  the 
regular  occupation  of  his  thoughts,  for  out  of  a  mere 
luxury  he  had  created  a  necessity. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  wondered,  as  she  sat  listening  to  his 
rhapsodies  on  the  sensations  produced  in  him  by  this 
print,  what  would  be  the  effect  were  she  suddenly  to 
show  to  him  the  curious  web  of  circumstances  at  the 
heart  of  which  he  sat,  the  unconscious  first  cause  of  so 
many  results.  To  Mrs.  Knyvett,  who  rather  over- 
stated things  in  her  love  of  picturesque  speech,  this 
old  Sybarite  appeared  in  the  guise  of  a  vulture  feeding 
perpetually  on  a  maiden,  like  that  Caucasian  bird  who 
tore  the  liver  of  the  rock-bound  Prometheus. 

She  began  to  be  afraid  that  none  of  the  rest  of  the 
family  were  going  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Archer, 
it  seemed,  was  in  London,  Anne  had  returned  to  her 
medical  work  and  Sara  was  out.  But  Mrs.  Knyvett  was 
luckier  that  she  had  hoped,  for  in  the  midst  of  her 
preparations  for  leaving,  Mrs.  Bellew  appeared,  walk- 
ing up  the  avenue  with  Mrs.  Woodruffe  and  Molly. 

The  two  dowagers  received  one  another  graciously  and 
presently  Mrs.  Woodruffe  settled  down  by  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
displaying  as  she  did  so  a  liberal  allowance  of  openwork 
stocking  and  a  highly-fluttered  mind.  She  was  taking 
in  every  detail  of  the  newcomer's  dress  with  the  skill 
inherited  from  a  family  who  for  generations  had  used 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  199 

their  finest  powers  of  observation  on  that  exercise  of  the 
brain. 

"Very  charmed  to  meet  you,"  she  exclaimed.  "We 
know  your  son,  you  see,  so  very  well  that,  really,  Molly 
and  I  feel  almost  a  part  of  the  family. ' ' 

"Indeed,"  riposted  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "I  was  not  aware 
that  the  acquaintance  was  so  close  as  that.  But  I  believe 
we  have  another  link  in  young  Anerley  who  is,  my  son 
tells  me,  a  great  friend  of  your  daughter's." 

' '  Oh,  yes,  he 's  quite  a  nice  fellow.  We  were  very  glad 
to  be  kind  to  him,  for  I  always  think  it  does  so  much 
good  to  men  of  that  class  for  them  to  meet  refined  women. 
You  may  not  know  it,  perhaps,  because  she  hasn't  in 
the  least  the  air  of  a  blue-stocking,  but  my  Molly  took 
a  first  class  degree.  But  I  always  tell  her  not  to  give 
herself  airs  on  that  account,  for  not  even  a  degree  can 
prevent  a  woman  making  a  fool  of  herself.  Study  is  very 
little  trouble  to  her,  or  of  course  I  should  never  have 
allowed  her  to  go  on  with  it.  I  always  think  there's 
nothing  spoils  the  eyes  so  much  as  constant  muzzing  over 
books.  And  a  young  girl's  looks,  even  in  these  days 
when  they  are  all  trying  to  ape  the  men,  are  the  first 
consideration  after  all.  'Molly,  my  child,'  I've  said  a 
hundred  times  if  I've  said  it  once,  'your  mother  started 
only  with  looks  and  see  what  she's  done  for  herself.' 
Though  of  course  I  was  always  bright  and  versatile. 
Versatility  has  in  fact  been  the  curse  of  our  family. 
Not  but  what  Mr.  Woodruffe  was  always  a  sad  trial  to 
me  with  his  early  death  and  constant  chills.  I  don't 
think,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  if  you'll  believe  me,  that  I  ever 
knew  him  without  a  cold  in  his  head.  It  amounted  in 
fact  to  chronic  catarrh." 

"Very  sad,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  abstractedly  watch- 
ing Molly,  who  was  looking  tired  and  worn. 

"And  then  he  left  me  a  widow  so  young.  I  remem- 
ber that  when  I  first  appeared  in  weeds,  they  all  said 


200  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

with  one  accord :  'Ah,  a  widow,  indeed.'  But  it  wasn't 
the  width  of  the  crape  they  referred  to,  it  was  the 
widow's  heart.  And  you,  too,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  were  early 
left,  I  understand?" 

Mrs.  Knyvett  stared,  for  her  mind  had  been  wander- 
ing from  the  tepid  flow  of  soothing  contemplation  which 
was  Mrs.  Woodruffe's  idea  of  conversation.  She  re- 
peated vaguely  "Early  left?"  Then  with  an  effort 
threw  her  mind  back  into  the  remote  past. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  she  said  briskly,  "he's  dead  these 
forty  years.  And,  anyway,  when  he  was  alive  he  was 
almost  always  at  sea,  though  not  in  the  literal  sense  of 
course,  since  he  was  a  barrister,  so  that  he  hardly  seemed 
to  count.  If  it  wasn't  for  Billy's  existence,  I  should 
hardly  realise  that  I  had  ever  been  married.  But  I  sup- 
pose I  must  have  been,  because  I've  always  been  quite 
respectable.  Else  I  should  "call  myself  a  sort  of  Virgin 
Martyr." 

She  sat  up  in  her  chair,  as  astringent  as  tannin  and 
as  stiff  as  buckram.  Impishness  lurked  in  the  corner 
of  her  eye,  for  this  babbling  woman  with  the  rat's  teeth 
made  her  feel  intensely  irritable. 

While  Mrs.  Woodruffe  was  trying  to  recover  from 
this  broadside  of  homeliness,  Mrs.  Knyvett  was  contriv- 
ing to  approach  Molly.  Insensibly  the  older  woman's 
voice  softened  as  she  spoke  to  the  girl,  for  she  was  al- 
ways much  influenced  by  the  charm  of  youth  and  deep 
down,  though  she  was  unaware  of  the  fact,  one  of  her 
most  instinctive  objections  to  Sara  was  that  she  had 
the  poise  of  a  matured  woman,  was  too  self-sufficient  to 
need  mothering. 

' '  Comes  of  a  bad  breed  from  that  mincing  little  fifth- 
rate  fool,"  she  thought,  "but  she's  a  nice  girl.  And  so 
she's  to  be  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  British  art,  with 
Bellew  for  high  priest,  is  she?  Nous  verrons." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  was  getting  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing, 
but  insensibly  her  anger  was  rising  against  Sara  as  she 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  201 

watched  her  cold  self-possession  while  she  dispensed 
hospitality  to  her  guests  and  helped  to  keep  her  father 
pleased  and  in  good  humour.  The  self-possession  was 
ostentatious,  Mrs.  Knyvett  considered,  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  tohu-bohu  that  was  going  on  round  her.  But 
whether  hysterics  would  have  pleased  Mrs.  Knyvett  bet- 
ter is  a  moot  point. 

Meanwhile  she  had  drawn  Molly  into  the  garden,  for 
a  quick  liking  had  sprung  up  between  these  two,  the 
girl  divining  the  incipient  motherliness  of  this  lady  of 
quality,  and  the  woman  feeling  the  instant  response  to 
her  own  on-coming  disposition. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
gently  touching  the  roses  that  the  girl  wore  at  her 
breast,  "for  speaking  of  your  private  affairs  at  so  short 
an  acquaintance.  But  I've  heard  all  about  it  from 
Billy.  We  both  like  young  Anerley  very  much  indeed. 
He's  just  a  bit  young,  perhaps,"  she  added,  covering 
many  failings  with  the  word,  "but  he  will  make  a 
straightforward,  honest  man,  to  whom  I  would  gladly 
give  any  girl  I  cared  for.  I  suppose  you  two  are  about 
of  an  age  in  years,  but  a  woman  is  always  older  than 
a  man  in  many  things.  So  I  may  speak  frankly. 
Faults  there  are  in  him  of  manner,  but  there's  a  good 
heart  underneath.  You  may  do  a  great  deal  for  him, 
my  dear." 

Nor,  as  Molly  knew,  did  Mrs.  Knyvett  refer,  as  her 
son  had  done,  to  the  mere  matters  of  a  successful  career. 
Strange,  too,  that  what  she  resented  in  Billy  Knyvett, 
she  liked  when  it  came  from  his  mother.  But  woman 
deals  with  woman  on  the  homely  every-day  plane;  with 
man  she  prefers  to  queen  it.  The  noise  of  voices  from 
the  tea-table  behind  them,  the  circling  of  the  gnats  in 
the  soft  air,  the  lazy  lap  of  the  waves  in  the  distance 
all  combined  to  lure  the  girl  into  response  to  this  quiet 
friendliness.  She  yielded  to  it  as  she  might  have  to  a 
warm,  enveloping  sea. 


202  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

' '  Oh, ' '  she  cried,  ' '  it  isn  't  as  easy  as  you  think.  Peo- 
ple watch  and  say  nothing  and  think  the  more.  I  feel 
like  Mary  Kingsley  when  she  had  a  bath  in  West  Africa, 
as  though  at  every  crevice  there  was  glued  an  eye. 
Mother  always  makes  things  harder  and  my  one  friend 
down  here  has  gone  back  to  her  work.  Besides,  I  can't 
talk  freely  to  Anne  Hereford.  For  one  thing,  she's  so 
straight,  so  down  on  the  nail." 

"Will  you  come  to-night  and  dine  with  me  on  the 
yacht?"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett.  "I  shall  be  quite  alone, 
for  Billy  and  Peter  have  to  go  up  to  town  to  see  about 
stores  for  the  expedition.  They  go  by  the  night  mail. 
And  I  have  come  down  to  see  if  I  can  be  of  any  help. 
Let  me  begin  with  you.  Not,"  said  she,  as  she  saw  a 
shiver  of  withdrawal  pass  across  the  girl's  face,  ''not 
that  I  want  to  press  a  confidence.  I'm  quite  straight, 
I  think,  but  I've  seen  many  more  things  than  Anne 
Hereford.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  shock  me.  Will  you 
come  ?  Cornelius  is  an  admirable  cook  and  Billy 's  Ben- 
edictine is  quite  the  nicest  I  know.  I  always  see  to  it 
that  there's  the  genuine  brand  of  it  aboard  the  yacht, 
for  Benedictine  is  a  woman's  liqueur,  you  know." 

The  girl  closed  her  eyes  and  smiled.  Already  she 
felt  around  her  a  something  to  which  in  her  hard  life  of 
struggle  she  had  always  been  a  stranger.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  that  every  woman's  hand  was  instinctively  against 
her,  every  man's  outstretched  to  snatch  greedily  at  all 
she  had  to  give.  Through  the  whole  of  her  home  life 
this  feeling  ran;  her  fight  for  a  living  had  only  con- 
firmed it;  nor  had  her  love  affairs  contradicted  the  no- 
tion, for  Stephen  cared  for  her  as  an  adjunct  to  his 
career,  Bellew  because  she  could  contribute  to  his  pleas- 
ures. She  paused  a  moment,  startled  at  the  idea  of 
trusting  an  entire  stranger  who  perhaps  had  her  own 
ends  to  serve. 

But  Molly  was  a  child  before  this  woman  at  whom 
she  looked  so  shyly.  Then  at  last,  like  a  field-mouse 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  203 

that  greatly  dares  for  a  crumb,  she  put  out  a  hand. 
It  was  firmly  grasped  and  Mrs.  Knyvett  said: 

"I  know  all  about  friendship,  Molly.  One  of  the 
best  things  in  my  life  is  my  friendship  with  a  woman 
whom  you  must  know  some  day." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  felt  almost  ashamed,  with  the  gener- 
osity of  a  fine  nature  when  it  recognises  how  free  from 
temptation  it  has  always  lived.  She  even  envied  for  a 
moment  those  who,  like  Margaret  Rossiter,  like  this  girl, 
have  waded  through  deep  waters  and  so  wading,  have 
earned  the  firm  ground  on  which  they  stand. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Woodruff e,  as  she  walked  home 
with  her  daughter,  "of  all  the  vulgar,  ill-bred  women 
I've  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  meet,  commend  me  to 
this  one.  I  actually  blushed  to  hear  the  outrageously 
low  things  she  said.  She  really  is  a  perfect  degradation 
to  womanhood.  But  she  seems  to  have  taken  a  mighty 
fancy  to  you.  I  always  notice  that  the  people  who  take 
you  up  are  the  sort  I  really  can't  stand  at  any  price. 
But  it's  all  the  same  to  me,  of  course.  I'm  nothing  to 
them  and  they're  nothing  to  me  and  I  wouldn't  say  a 
word  against  your  sticking  to  the  nobs  on  any  account, 
but  how  you  can  put  up  with  the  likes  of  that,  really 
beats  me." 

Molly  was  for  once  entirely  silent,  since,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  was  herself  regretting  her  expansive  mood. 

There  was  always  one  person  at  Craneham  whom 
Mrs.  Knyvett  insisted  on  seeing  and  that  was  Eliza- 
beth, formerly  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  Mrs.  Knyvett 
was,  next  to  la  petite  Anne,  the  one  person  with  whom 
Elizabeth  put  off  her  official  manner.  Bidding  good- 
bye to  Mr.  Hereford,  who  was  already  nodding  in  his 
chair  after  the  fatigue  of  his  lecture  on  Eastern  Art, 
Mrs.  Knyvett  made  for  the  back  regions  of  the  house. 

Weird  sounds  came  from  the  kitchen;  the  lashing  of 
tails  -was  followed  by  hard  thumps  on  the  flags  of  the 
floor  and  the  noise  of  laughter.  Mrs.  Knyvett  opened 


204  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

the  door  and  there  found  the  immaculate  Sara  unbend- 
ing for  once.  She  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  in  fact,  hold- 
ing her  knees  with  her  hands  while  the  two  cats  prac- 
tised jiujutsu  with  one  another.  Boulou  and  Baby, 
standing  rampant  on  hind  legs,  gripped  each  other,  were 
thrown,  and  lay  kicking  stomachs  with  a  volley  of 
thumps.  Tails  lashed,  and  Sara  spurred  them  on. 
Watching  in  her  corner  sat  Elizabeth. 

Then  the  cats  withdrew,  ears  back,  staring  at  one 
another  with  wild  green  eyes.  Lack  of  wind  called 
Time.  Attracted  by  Elizabeth's  glance,  Sara  turned 
round  and  found  Mrs.  Knyvett  watching  her. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  she  cried.  "Do  come  and  look  at 
them." 

Then,  holding  the  seal-coloured  beast  up  to  her  face 
till  its  furry  cheeks  were  close  to  hers: 

"Ingie — pingie — wingie,"  she  chuckled,  raining 
kisses  on  the  creature's  flat  head,  while  it  kicked  her 
with  lively  be-stockinged  hind  legs. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of  pleas- 
ure, for  the  place  was  warm  and  homely  and  although 
she  disapproved  of  Sara  at  a  distance,  she  yet  found  her 
not  ill  at  close  quarters.  Elizabeth  was  gazing  at  the 
scene  like  a  sphinx.  Every  now  and  then  her  lips 
worked;  she  might,  to  all  appearance,  have  been  telling 
her  beads,  had  it  been  possible  to  conceive  the  old 
Parisian  doing  anything  so  mediaeval. 

Then,  suddenly  tiring  of  the  cats,  Sara  pushed  them 
aside. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Archer's  last  book?"  she  asked 
abruptly,  as  she  sat  on  her  heels  looking  up  at  Mrs. 
Knyvett.  "For  of  course  you've  read  'Between  Two 
Servitudes'?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Knyvett,  for  the  first  time 
wondering  whether  she  had  ever  really  come  in  contact 
with  the  true  Sara.  This  was  a  woman,  keen-eyed,  with 
brain  evidently  working.  The  episode  of  the  cats,  too, 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  205 

had  been  proof  of  a  childish  unbending  that  she  had 
never  associated  with  this  cold,  self-contained  woman. 
Then,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Elizabeth's  smiling  eyes, 
she  understood ;  this  old  kitchen  was  Sara 's  home. 

"It  appears  to  me,"  remarked  Mrs.  Belle w,  "that 
it's  the  most  sincere  thing  he's  yet  done.  Oh,  yes," 
she  smiled,  noticing  Mrs.  Knyvett's  look  of  surprise, 
"I  can  be  fair,  I  think,  even  to  my  own  husband's 
work.  It's  full,  of  course,  of  the  clatter  of  broken 
commandments,  but  then  the  old  decalogue  nowa- 
days is  just  like  an  old  chart — no  use  in  unexplored 
seas." 

"And  the  seas  of  to-day  are  all  unexplored." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Sara  eagerly,  "that's  it; 
that's  just  it.  Archer  is  helping  to  work  at  the  great 
task  of  the  time,  the  recognition  that  all  sorts  of  new 
social  groupings  are  required  to  suit  the  people  of  to- 
day. We've  never  been  so  bent  on  being  ourselves,  you 
know,  as  we  are  nowadays." 

"Yet,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "at  the  same  time,  look- 
ing at  us  in  one  way  you  would  say  that  we  were  all 
being  drilled  into  a  set  of  well-behaved,  under-vitalised 
nonentities,  all  turned  out  after  the  same  pattern,  all 
worshipping  the  same  gods.  It  seems  sometimes  as  if 
civilisation  were  a  hydra,  coiling  round  and  stifling  the 
power  out  of  us." 

She  bent  forward  eagerly,  as  keen  for  the  encounter 
of  wits  as  though  she  had  not  been  already  talking  for 
hours  on  end.  A  day's  silence  would  have  brought 
Mrs.  Knyvett  to  lockjaw. 

"That's  true,  that's  true,"  cried  Sara,  "but  we're 
trying  to  escape.  We  must  escape  if  we're  to  live. 
That's  why  Archer  and  his  like  are  useful." 

"Ay,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  grimly,  "they  show  you 
how  to  break  the  commandments  gracefully." 

"And  why  not?  Some  people  have  got  to  smash 
commandments.  It's  the  only  way  they  can  help.  For 


206  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

we  are  'Between  two  Servitudes,'  that  of  the  past  and 
the  future.  "We  must  serve  one  or  the  other." 

"Then  I  put  my  money  on  the  future,"  said  Mrs. 
Knyvett. 

"And  so  do  I,"  answered  Sara,  rising. 

They  both  stood  in  silence  by  the  stove  in  whose  red- 
hot  belly  glowed  the  fire  that  was  presently  to  cook  Mr. 
Hereford  a  dainty  dinner.  The  stove  became  in  the 
eyes  of  these  women  a  sort  of  symbol  of  that  past  which 
worked  in  the  lives  of  all  three. 

"You  see,"  said  Sara  dreamily,  "we're  only  now 
beginning  to  know  the  truth  about  women.  All  down 
the  centuries  men  have  told  us  what  they  wanted  us  to 
be.  And  so  we  pretended  to  be  it,  to  please  them. 
They've  never  seen  us  as  we  are.  We've  been  like 
slaves,  disguising  ourselves  to  please  our  masters,  hiding 
our  ideas  under  folly,  like  Mrs.  Woodruffe  when  she's 
on  the  war  path.  We're  strong  enough  now  to  let  the 
truth  be  known.  That's  where  Archer  comes  in;  he 
is  a  specialist  in  women.  But,  you  know,"  she  laughed, 
"he  really  is  a  very  conventional  person  in  actual  life. 
Talks  all  sorts  of  stuff  that  comes  down  from  duelling 
days  about  not  doing  this,  that,  or  the  other  when  he's 
a  guest,  or  a  host,  or  something  of  that  sort.  There's  a 
kind  of  Byronism  about  him,  too,  that  attracts  girls  like 
Molly  Woodruffe." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  felt  as  though  she  were  watching  a 
dainty  lady  in  kid  gloves  suddenly  start  dissecting  a 
corpse. 

"While  Archer  was  talking,  Billy  would  take  a  con- 
vention in  his  hands  and  smash  it  to  atoms,  if  he  thought 
the  time  was  come  to  do  it,"  said  Sara. 

"He  waits,  sits  quiet,  and  then — "  said  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett. 

"Ups,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  breaking  in  on  the  con- 
versation at  the  point  where  she  could  follo\v  it. 

The  three  women  understood  one  another  very  well 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  207 

when  it  came  to  the  comprehension  of  the  heart.  Then 
swift  duty  fell  upon  Sara  and  she  fled  from  the  room 
to  see  how  her  father  was  faring. 

"Ah,  oui,  Madame,"  said  Elizabeth,  coming  over  to 
Mrs.  Knyvett  and  leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  spot- 
less white  deal  table,  "I  am  glad  you  have  come.  For 
to  ce  cher  M.  Knyvett  one  cannot  speak  freely  as  to 
one  of  one's  own  sex.  And  Madame  is  of  those  who  un- 
derstand. ' ' 

None  but  Elizabeth's  hands  were  ever  supposed  to 
touch  so  much  as  a  bain-Marie  in  the  preparation  of 
dinner  and  when  the  hour  of  meal-time  approached  no 
maid  dared  to  come  near  Elizabeth's  kitchen.  Hence 
they  need  fear  no  interruption ;  yet  the  old  woman  took 
at  least  three  minutes  in  carefully  turning  Boulou  and 
Baby  out  of  doors  and  in  investigating  the  passages 
beyond  which,  in  their  own  quarters,  the  two  maids 
could  be  heard  laughing  and  talking. 

Although  Elizabeth  knew  everything  that  went  on 
in  Craneham,  she  used  her  knowledge  so  shrewdly  that 
none  suspected  it.  Partly  on  account  of  her  nationality 
and  partly  because  of  her  personal  attachment  to  Sara, 
she  stood  as  a  link  between  maids  and  mistress.  Her 
knowledge  of  English,  too,  was  far  greater  than  she  al- 
lowed anyone  to  imagine,  therefore  everyone  talked 
freely  before  her,  even  going  s6  far  as  to  regard  her,  to 
Elizabeth's  own  secret  joy,  as  a  cross  between  an  in- 
spired idiot  and  a  deaf  mute.  Nor  did  she  ever  make 
mischief,  but  even  at  times  showed  a  sort  of  Gascon 
jollity,  acid  and  sharp,  as  befitted  her  age,  but  real  and 
hearty  enough  to  induce  confidence  in  most  women. 
See  her  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  and  strip  her 
withered  arm  to  show  its  muscle  or  boldly  draw  her 
skirts  round  her  legs  to  indicate  the  brave  Belgian  stout- 
ness thereof  and  you  would  understand  in  a  twinkling 
why  no  one  bottled  himself  up  before  Elizabeth.  By 
these  means  she  knew  everything,  much  as  the  old  broad 


208  -    WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

earth  knows  the  little  peccadilloes  of  the  beasts  that 
crawl  on  her. 

Although  she  loved  Sara,  she  none  the  less  enjoyed 
the  drama  of  the  story  she  had  to  tell.  Nor  were  her 
preparations  yet  complete,  for,  jumping  to  her  feet  with 
such  alacrity  as  her  eighty  odd  years  allowed  her,  she 
opened  the  clock  face  over  the  mantelpiece  and  tran- 
quilly put  the  hands  back  half  an  hour. 

'Twill  take  as  much  as  that,"  she  observed, 
"and  if  there's  trouble  about  the  time  of  the  dinner! 
Bah!  the  clock  cannot  lie,  can  it?  I  have  my  witness, 
I." 

She  winked  and  seated  herself. 

"I  know  not,"  said  she,  placidly  resting  her  hands 
on  her  lap,  "what  Madame,  who  hath  endured  it,  may 
think  of  marriage,  but  for  my  part,  who  am  but  a 
maiden  yet,  I  think  there  should  be  a  certain  decency 
about  it." 

To  so  evident  a  proposition  Mrs.  Knyvett  assented 
fully. 

"Eh  bien,"  continued  Elizabeth,  "I  say  not,  since 
the  messieurs  are  what  they  are,  that  there  might  not 
be  one,  two,  perhaps  three,  little  establishments  for  each 
monsieur,  given  the  means,  of  course.  One  perhaps  a 
little  milliner,  another  a  lady  of  the  coulisses,  a  yellow- 
haired  one,  vous  saves.  These  things  are  so  in  my  coun- 
try, as  in  yours.  N 'import e!  It  is  so.  The  messieurs 
have  their  ways  and,  bon  Dieu,  it  is  after  all  a  great 
saving  of  harassment  to  a  wife.  Many  a  wise  woman 
thinks  like  that.  I  have  known  those  who  do,  women 
who  sat  not  down  to  say,  like  les  petits,  I  will  have 
things  all  to  my  mind.  They  know  that  cannot  be,  so 
they  say:  'Voila!  here  is  this  man  of  mine.  Au  fond, 
he  is  a  beast.  But  it  is  better  not  to  think  of  it.  It  is 
better  to  turn  the  back  on  it.'  And,  in  his  way,  that 
husband,  he  gives  a  woman  what  she  wants,  because  she 
.wants  not  the  things  she  cannot  get." 


209 

"True  philosophy,  indeed,  Elizabeth.  But  how  much 
better  not  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"Eh,  but  woman  is  woman,  too.  And  it  is  the  only 
way,  for  the  hand  of  le  bon  Dieu  shook  badly  when  he 
took  the  clay  in  hand  to  make  the  messieurs.  He  had 
more — what  you  call  practice — when  he  come  to  Us. 
We  are  more  pairfect.  But  it  is  not  managed  as  I  have 
said  in  this  house.  For  M.  Bellew  he  pack  not  away 
his  petit es  dames  in  this  corner,  that  corner,  like  the 
little  mice  in  their  holes.  No,  down  here  he  comes,  par 
id,  and  he  make  the  town  talk,  ay,  the  canaille  jabber. 
And  the  little  Mademoiselle  they  talk  of  come  here, 
here,  to  Madame  Sara's  own  house.  She  was  here  to- 
day with  that" — here  Elizabeth  recurred  to  an  ancient 
Southern  sign — "her  mother.  It  is  not  comme-il-faut." 

"Elizabeth!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knyvett  sharply, 
"surely  they  are  not  talked  of  so.  You  are  romancing. 
Your  fears  make  you  see  bogies." 

"Ecoutez!  Madame.  This  is  how  it  start.  They  have 
over  in  that  town  where,  phew!  it  stinks  of  fish,  they 
have  many  devils,  it  seems,  and  ways  of  dealing  with 
them  that  tell  what  is  coming,  that  tell  the  future? 
How?  Eh,  by  the  cards,  by  looking  in  the  well.  Who 
knows  ?  The  peasants  in  my  country  do  the  same.  Now 
to  one  of  these  devil-owners  goeth  the  little  Mademoi- 
selle. Ay,  a  cunning  one  is  that  devil-owner.  She 
know  everything,  all  the  gossip,  and  so  she  talk  of  noz- 
zing  but  M.  Bellew.  And  she  note  that  the  Mademoiselle 
she  hath  ears  for  nothing  but  for  ce  M.  Bellew.  Not 
once,  but  twice,  hath  la  petite  gone  there,  to  the  house 
of  this  Madame  Bo-de-na,  the  devil-owner.  And  now 
that  same  Madame  Bo-de-na  hath  gold.  She  shut  up 
her  house  and  go;  she  send  her  children  away.  She 
hath  gold;  she  go;  presently  Mademoiselle  go,  too,  they 
say. 

"Now,  Madame,  they  put,  what  you  call  it? — two  by 
two—-" 


210  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Lying  jades,"  cried  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

"Eh!  what  will  you?  They  stand  hands  on  waist, 
I  know  them,  these  Englishwomen,  and  talk!  talk!  talk! 
And  look  at  the  mad  locks  of  these  brutes  of  Anglaises. 
Ah!  but  they  want  the  beautiful  coiffures  of  my  coun- 
trywomen ! ' ' 

"Do,  for  heaven's  sake,  go  on  with  your  story.  And 
so  these  fools,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Bodinar  has  money, 
say—" 

"That  M.  Bellew  has  paid  her;  that  at  her  house  he 
hath  assignations  with  Mademoiselle.  That  Madame 
Bodena  is — " 

"No  need  to  name  it,  Elizabeth!  Thank  goodness 
I  came  down.  But  it  is  all  Billy's  fault.  Now,  listen, 
Elizabeth.  All  this  is  a  great  farrago  of  lies.  I  know 
all  about  the  Bodinars  and  her  having  money  has  noth- 
ing at  all  to  do  with  Mr.  Bellew.  Bodinar,  the  man,  ran 
away  from  his  wife  and  my  son  is  arranging  to  bring 
them  together  again.  For  that  purpose  he  gave  Mrs. 
Bodinar  a  little  money  to  settle  up  her  affairs." 

"Voild!  but  the  tongues  of  the  women  over  here  are 
worse  than  the  devils  of  the  place.  Now  in  my  country 
they  love  good  things.  They  sing  gailment:  Vive  le 
vin,  vive  I' amour.  But  they  sit  not  in  dark  holes,  like 
these  Anglaises,  recounting  to  one  another  monstrous 
fables." 

"Six  to  one  and  half  a  dozen  to  the  other,"  snapped 
Mrs.  Knyvett.  "But  really  this  is  preposterous.  And 
do  they  say  anything  about  my  son?" 

"Eh!  they  say,"  shrugged  Elizabeth,  "that  he  is 
epris  with  Madame  Sara  and  it  is  time  that  Madame 
gave  herself  a  little  comfort." 

"Perhaps  they  say  that  Madame  has  done  so?"  en- 
quired Mrs.  Knyvett,  eyeing  the  old  woman  keenly. 

"Ah,  no!  he  is  cold,  M.  Knyvett.  He  would  not  lift 
his  eyes  to  so  great  a  height." 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  211 

"And  that  isn't  true,  Elizabeth.  You  needn't  tell 
any  lies  to  me.  I  suppose  they  do  say  so." 

"En  effet,"  said  Elizabeth  calmly,  "Madame  Sara 
and  M.  Billee  were  made  for  one  another.  When  le  bon 
Dieu  framed  them  both,  he  held  them  up,  one  in  each 
hand,  and  said:  'Vottd!  mes  enfants,  two  halves  of  a 
pairfect  whole.  And  don't  you  forget  it.'  But  they 
mislaid  one  another.  That's  where  the  mischief  began. 
N'est-ce  pas,  Madame." 

But  Madame  was  too  harassed  to  reply.  Nor  did  she 
recover  her  equanimity  till,  with  a  well-blended  little 
dinner  in  her  interior,  she  sat  in  the  Pendragon's  saloon 
tete-a-tete  with  Molly  Woodruff e.  Elizabeth's  story  had 
done  harm,  for  Mrs.  Knyvett's  feeling  towards  the  girl 
had  changed;  she  no  longer  felt  in  the  same  mood  of 
beneficent  kindness  towards  her.  For,  although  she 
knew  that  the  story  bruited  abroad  by  Rumour  was 
nothing  but  a  lie,  she  could  not  acquit  Molly  of  a  folly 
so  careless  that  it  amounted  to  criminality.  Nor  did  the 
fact  that  her  son  was  indirectly  concerned,  through  the 
money  he  had  advanced  to  Mrs.  Bodinar,  tend  to  make 
Mrs.  Knyvett  any  the  more  generous  towards  the  girl. 

Then,  as  she  watched  the  oily  flow  of  the  Benedictine 
which  Cornelius  was  pouring  for  them,  the  devil  entered 
into  Mrs.  Knyvett.  It  suddenly  struck  her  how  easily 
solved  this  problem  would  be  were  she  just  to  give  Molly 
a  little  push  onwards,  over  the  abyss  that  is  called  the 
irrevocable.  There  was  the  way  out  of  it  all,  a  way 
that  left  Billy  with  untarnished  honour,  that  set  Sara 
free  only  at  the  cost  of  some  vexation.  Bellew  would 
marry  the  girl  most  certainly;  she  herself,  the  fly  on 
the  wheel,  as  she  called  herself,  would  see  to  that.  The 
suit  for  restitution  that  Margaret  Rossiter  had  talked  of, 
would  end  all  and  send  Billy  back,  free  from  all  these 
ludicrous,  degrading  entanglements,  to  do  his  work  in 
the  world.  At  whose  cost? 


212  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Mrs.  Knyvett  looked  across  the  table  at  the  delicate 
bare  head  and  shoulders  in  the  light  of  the  bulkhead 
lamps,  as  Molly  blew  smoke  rings  from  her  round  but- 
ton of  a  mouth;  a  very  dainty  thing,  even  to  the  ear- 
rings clasped  to  her  ears,  the  harem-toys  that  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett hated.  There  was  a  diamond  in  each  and  they 
winked  at  the  masterful  person  who  watched  them.  Mrs. 
Knyvett  began  to  feel  like  a  divine  artificer  who  holds 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand  the  tiny  mortals  that  revolve 
in  their  figure  dance  beneath  his  brooding  eyes.  A 
breath,  just  a  sudden  sigh  from  above,  and  this  little 
figure  before  her  might  be  puffed  right  over  into  the 
abyss. 

Or  so  it  seemed. 

"I  used  to  think,"  said  Molly,  ''that  it  didn't  mat- 
ter what  became  of  me.  For  you  see  I've  always  felt 
as  a  pig  would  feel,  if  it  knew  it  was  being  fed  for  pork. 
Mother's  run  me  like  a  race-horse  for  the  matrimonial 
stakes  ever  since  I  was  so  high.  I've  been  dragged 
round  to  hydros  and  boarding-houses  and  she's  given 
parties  for  me,  always  telling  me  the  cost  afterwards. 
Oh,  I  needn't  mind  telling  you,  for  everybody  else 
would,  if  I  didn't.  And  after  every  outburst  we  have 
to  live  as  meanly  as  church  mice.  Of  course  we  starve 
our  servants  and  they  hardly  ever  stay  outside  their 
month.  I've  escaped,  in  a  way,  but  the  fact  is  I  drop 
back  and  get  tired  of  the  everlasting  grind.  Then  I 
read  things  like  'The  Odd  Women,'  and  'The  Old  Wives' 
Tale, '  and  I  saw  'Justice.'  The  people  there  were  trivial 
and  weak,  worse  than  I  am,  in  fact,  but  they  seemed  to 
matter,  all  the  same.  For  they  felt,  suffered,  lived  in 
their  own  world,  just  as  I  do.  They  wanted  to  be 
happy,  just  as  I  do,  and  they  had  even  worse  times  than 
I  had.  Then  I  knew  that  I  was  one  of  a  big  number 
and  we  all  of  us  mattered.  That's  how  it  was. ' ' 

Mrs.  Knyvett  was  answered;  not  entirely  convinced 
by  the  logic  of  Molly's  deduction,  she  yet  recognised 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  213 

its  premises.  For  she  was  old  enough  to  be  able  to  re- 
mark the  change  that  has  passed  over  English  life  dur- 
ing the  last  half  century  while  the  alchemists  of  litera- 
ture, its  realistic  novelists  and  playwrights,  have  been 
at  work.  In  this  age  both  mean  streets,  respectable 
stucco-villas  and  brick-built  rows  of  artisans'  dwellings 
have  been  made  to  yield  right  human  stuff,  just  as  the 
slag  heaps  of  the  mines  have  had  to  give  up  their  treas- 
ures to  the  chemist.  No  one  nowadays,  as  Mrs.  Knyvett 
began  to  see,  is  a  great  artificer,  where  all  are  wonder- 
ful in  as  much  as  they  suffer.  Of  the  suffering,  indeed, 
too  much  has  been  made.  Yet  this  was  inevitable  since 
the  painters  of  it  are  themselves  of  the  most  sensitive 
class  that  nature  makes.  They  heighten  the  pains, 
therefore,  and  often  suppress  the  secret  place  of  hidden 
pleasure  which  most  human  beings  conceal  within  them- 
selves, visiting  it  daily  as  a  boy  his  hoard  of  ripening 
apples. 

Of  the  realities  of  their  life  most  people  can  say 
nothing,  but  the  dumb  have  found  a  voice  to-day  in  the 
teller  of  stories.  Not  unwisely,  then,  did  old  Philip 
Hawkins  pay  homage  to  the  father  of  the  English  novel, 
that  Bow  Street  magistrate  with  his  scheme  for  the 
reformation  of  the  still  unreformed  English  Poor  Law, 
and  both,  more  precious  still,  his  imaginative  sympathy 
that  went  down  into  the  stews  of  London  with  seeing 
eye  and  recording  hand. 

"And  then,"  continued  Molly,  "there  was  Anne 
Hereford  and,  oh,  dozens  of  women  like  her  that  I've 
known.  They  made  me  feel  how  hateful  it  was  to  do 
anything  to  make  women  despised  more  than  they  are 
already.  They  say  women  betray  secrets,  that  they 
aren't  to  be  trusted.  Well!  the  other  day  a  woman 
secretary  that  I  know  sold  some  political  information 
because  she  wanted,  just  for  once,  a  five-guinea  hat 
from  Bond  Street.  She'd  always  been  badly  paid — 
we  nearly  all  are,  you  know.  And  every  man  who 


214  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

knew  of  it  said:  'Oh,  a  woman  again,  you  see.  Can't 
trust  'em.'  So  she  pushed  all  women  back  a  little 
more,  just  so  far  as  her  influence  reached.  I  should 
hate  myself  if  I'd  done  a  thing  like  that!"  she  ex- 
claimed, pleating  the  fringe  of  the  table-cloth. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  was  modern  enough  to  understand  the 
spirit  of  sex  loyalty  that  flows  like  a  river  through  the 
woman's  life  to-day,  a  subterranean  river  that  only 
flashes  in  the  daylight  here  and  there. 

"But  yet,"  said.  Molly,  with  thorough  enjoyment  of 
this  outpouring  of  her  inner  world,  "I  don't  want  to 
settle,  as  people  call  it.  It's  so  horribly  final." 

She  wriggled,  as  though  an  earwig  had  slipped  down 
her  back. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  smiled,  for  she,  too,  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  her  excursion  into  the  girl's  mind. 

"And  Stephen  Anerley,"  she  said,  "would  build  you 
so  firmly  into  his  life,  wouldn't  he?  Master  Stephen 
is  a  man  who  always  knows  his  own  mind.  Faith,  and 
he  ought  to,  for  he  sweeps  out  the  corners  of  it  as  re- 
ligiously as  he  takes  a  bath.  Do  you  know,  the  other 
day  I  was  reading  a  discourse  on  what  the  author  was 
pleased  to  call  'morals.'  He  took  as  his  text  some 
Japanese  rules  about  washing  and  eating  and  talked  as 
if  they  constituted  a  moral  code.  He  really  didn  't  seem 
to  see  that  there  are  deeper  things  in  morality  than  baths 
and  flesh-eating.  As  to  sex  morality,  he  summed  it  up 
by  'Marry  early  and  marry  often.'  Stephen's  just  like 
that  man.  He  doesn't  bother  about  any  thunder  from 
Sinai — or  the  Pit — directing  where  he's  to  walk.  He 
just  hears  the  doctor  saying:  'Now,  Mr.  Anerley,  three 
square  meals  a  day,  eight  hours'  sleep  and  a  hot  bath. 
Blood-hot,  you  understand.'  ' 

"And  the  'marry  early  and  often'?"  asked  Molly, 
showing  her  dimples. 

"Yes,  that  too.    Marriage  is  to  him  just  a  healthy 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  215 

practice,  as  it  is  with  the  Japanese,  not  a  thing  that 
concerns  soul  and  spirit,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

The  next  moment  she  suddenly  bethought  herself  of 
the  impropriety  of  such  talk  about  a  man  to  his  own 
fiancee. 

"Ye  gods!"  ejaculated  she  mentally.  "Why  ever  do 
I  attempt  to  talk  to  anybody  under  forty?  I'm  not 
virginibus  puerisque,  and  that's  a  fact." 

Molly  covered  her  confusion  by  lighting  a  fresh  ciga- 
rette; the  ease  with  which  men  keep  silence  over  the 
mysteries  is,  it  would  seem,  not  temperamental,  but  a 
mere  result  of  the  tobacco  habit.  Had  Mrs.  Knyvett 's 
mouth  but  held  a  pipe,  her  tongue,  mayhap,  would  have 
kept  holy  silence.  Instead,  being  irritated  with  herself, 
she  plunged  recklessly. 

"And  'marry  early  and  often'  is  right  enough,  too, 
for  a  man.  One  wife's  not  enough  for  any  man.  And 
when  a  woman's  got  her  children,  she  doesn't  want  to 
be  bothered  with  him.  It's  bad  for  the  children,  possi- 
ble and  actual,  and  it's  bad  for  her.  Monogamy's  one 
of  the  causes  why  we  're  generating  so  many  nervous  chil- 
dren, of  course." 

One  of  the  methods  practised  in  medicine  is  that  of 
arousing  an  organ  to  the  performance  of  its  function 
by  means  of  irritation.  On  this  principle  Molly's  puri- 
tanism  was  aroused.  She  sat  up  and  glared,  awake  at 
last  to  her  own  maidenliness. 

"Mrs.  Knyvett,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  can  you  talk 
like  that?  There  isn't  anything  in  the  world  so  won- 
derful as  the  love  between  one  man  and  one  woman, 
just  those  two,  with  all  the  world  outside  as  nothing  to 
them.  Why,  all  the  best,  the  finest  things  in  life  come 
from  that.  And  if  it  means  pain  and  struggle  to  live  up 
to  such  a  high  ideal,  aren't  we  all  the  better  for  the 
fight?" 

"Then,   my  dear,   if  that's   what  you  think,"   said 


216  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Mrs.  Knyvett  quietly, ' '  why  in  the  world  are  you  philan- 
dering about  with  Archer  Bellew,  and  losing  your  good 
name  into  the  bargain?" 

She  proceeded  to  tell  Elizabeth's  story  in  very  plain 
words,  while  Molly  sat  and  shivered  as  though  she  had 
been  whipped. 

"Do  you  care  for  Anerley?"  asked  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
when  she  had  finished. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"But  you  like  the  sort  of  Byronism  that  Bellew  ef- 
fects. I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  given  you  that  ring," 
she  said,  pointing  to  a  bloodstone  on  the  girl's  finger. 
"And  you're  to  send  to  him  with  it,  if  you  want  his 
help?" 

A  second  flush  across  the  girl's  white  face  showed 
that  the  shot  had  gone  home. 

' '  I  know  two  other  women  with  whom  he  has  a  similar 
arrangement,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  drily.  "Forbye,  he's 
got  a  wife.  Now,  if  you're  shocked  at  my  physiology, 
good,  plain,  honest  fact  as  it  is,  I'm  shocked  at  your 
falseness  to  your  own  principles.  I  've  heard  that  you  've 
a  good  head  when  you  like  to  use  it,  that  you  can  speak 
and  organise.  Go  away  and  do  it,  then.  Send  back 
Bellew  his  ring  with  the  message  that  you've  no  more 
use  for  it.  And  go  off  to  your  work.  If  at  the  end  of 
a  year  or  so,  you  and  Anerley  are  of  the  same  mind,  and 
you  care  for  the  prospect  of  writing  his  speeches  and 
bearing  his  children,  then  marry  him.  If  not,  don't. 
Plenty  of  other  fish  in  the  sea.  But  don't  try  to  catch 
'em  with  hook  and  line,  for  that  spoils  the  fish,  my  dear. 
There,  now,  there,"  she  cried,  seeing  that  Molly  was 
gasping  from  this  douche  of  words,  "I'm  not  as  hard 
or  as  wicked  as  I  seem.  You  don't  really  care  for  this 
Bellew,  do  you?" 

Molly  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said : 

"He  played  with  me,  led  me  on.     Then — pushed  me 


THE  FLY  ON  THE  WHEEL  217 

away.  He  said  nothing  was  so  good  as  anticipation." 
Then  lower  still,  ' '  He  shamed  me. ' ' 

Mrs.  Knyvett  drew  the  girl's  head  down  on  her 
shoulder;  she  had  got  the  truth  at  last. 

"Little  girl,"  she  said;  "poor  little  girl.  But  never 
mind  what  other  people  say,  or  think.  It  isn't  what 
they  think  that  matters  to  you.  If  it  seems  right  to 
you  to — go  on  with  this  man,  then  do  it.  But  does  it 
seem  honest  to  you  yourself?" 

"No,"  said  Molly,  "it  doesn't.  It  never  would, 
really.  I've  always  known  that.  I  suppose  it  was  he 
who  was — honest." 

"The  cur!"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  heartily.  "But  don't 
forget  the  proverb,  for  your  own  comfort :  '  Sins  of  the 
flesh  are  not  sins.'  Sins  of  the  spirit  are  much  worse, 
I  think.  But  you'll  go  back  to  a  good  healthy  job  now, 
won't  you,  that  means  eight  hours  a  day  of  hard  labour 
and  as  much  political  excitement  as  you  can  get  in?" 

"Yes,"  said  Molly,  as  lifting  her  head  from  its  rest- 
ing place,  she  contemplated  Mrs.  Knyvett 's  powerful 
face.  "You're  not  hard,  really,"  she  remarked  at  last. 

After  her  visitor  had  gone,  Mrs.  Knyvett  sat  on  till 
Cornelius  began  to  wonder  if  he  would  ever  see  his 
bunk  again.  She  was  thinking  with  joy  of  the  good, 
healthy  wind,  snow,  rain,  sleet,  and  ice  of  the  Horn. 
The  greybeards  thereof  delighted  her,  nor  did  its  inky 
cap  of  sullen  cloud  strike  terror  to  her  heart.  For 
there  Billy  would  be  far  removed  from  this  fluttering  of 
cage-birds. 

She  was,  besides,  very  pleased  with  herself,  since  she 
had  attempted  no  diabolic  meddling  with  Molly  Wood- 
ruffe's  fate,  but  had  rather  played  the  part  of  light- 
bringer.  Altogether  she  had  earned  the  sleep  of  the 
just;  so,  too,  had  Cornelius  by  the  time  she  called  him 
to  put  out  the  lights. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ARGONAUTS  OP  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE:  IN  THIS  SIMON  BO- 
DINAR  SINGES  HIS  WINGS  AND  THE  REST  OF  THE  COM- 
PANY SUFFER  A  SEA  CHANGE 


r'    C°le    alld    Pr°PPed 

himself  on  his  elbow  the  better  to  listen.  With 
a  long  glide  downwards  into  the  trough  of  the  sea,  a 
shiver  and  an  upward  rebound  to  the  crest,  the  floor 
of  the  Pendragon  slanted  nimbly,  alive  to  the  cradling 
of  the  blue  water.  It  was  not  the  ship's  motion  that 
had  roused  the  mate  nor  was  it  the  clattering  of  the 
gimbal  that  fastened  the  lamp  to  the  cabin  bulkhead. 
To  these  things  Mr.  Cole  was  accustomed. 

"Era  —  Rra  —  Era,"  sounded  the  horn  overhead;  then 
came  a  patter  of  feet,  an  order  in  Knyvett's  tones  and 
the  answer  from  the  man  at  the  wheel. 

"Fog,"  said  the  first  mate,  "and  the  Old  Man  on 
deck." 

Nor  was  it  that  which  had  penetrated  to  his  brain 
through  the  mists  of  sleep  ;  it  was  a  sound  in  the  cabin 
itself,  a  sound  which  annoyed  Mr.  Cole  even  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  rejoicing  in  the  second  mate's  in- 
feriority as  a  seaman.  Of  course  the  skipper  had  to 
sleep  "all  standing"  since  Lethbridge  was  at  the  port 
watch  and  a  fog  going  on  at  the  edge  of  soundings. 

Then  the  noise  came  again:  a  rattling  of  top  teeth 
against  bottom  from  the  opposite  bunk  where  slept  the 
carefully  cherished  object  of  everyone's  attention  aboard 
—  Simon  Bodinar,  the  gold-finder.  He  was  talking  in  his 
sleep  with  the  noise  a  cat  makes  when  she  sees  a  bird  in 
the  blue.  Every  ounce  of  sleep  gone  from  him,  Cole  lis- 

218 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      219 

tened,  his  hairy  ears  a-quiver  and  his  steel  blue  eyes 
as  keen  as  a  ferret's.  For,  as  though  he  were  a  toad 
who  may,  perchance,  bear  a  jewel  in  his  head,  the  crew 
watched  the  red-haired  seaman ;  to  them  the  working  of 
his  brain  was  a  thing  to  bet  about,  and  the  care  of  his 
person  a  charge  precious  as  that  of  royalty.  Cole,  as 
the  first  in  authority,  had  been  entrusted  with  the  duty 
of  bear-leader;  hence  the  two  were  roommates,  for  the 
gold  thirst,  like  poverty,  makes  strange  bedfellows. 

"The  wages  of  sin — is  death,"  said  Bodinar,  lisping 
like  an  old  man  who  has  forgotten  his  false  teeth. 

"  'Hast  thou  eyes  of  flesh?  or  seest  thou  as  man 
seeth  ? 

' '  '  Are  thy  days  as  the  days  of  man  ?  Are  thy  years  as 
man's  days? 

"  'That  thou  enquirest  after  mine  iniquity- 
See  Book  of  Job,  chapter  ten,  verse — " 

His  last  words  came  with  the  sucking  sound  of  a 
pump  that  is  running  dry. 

"Ah,"  said  Cole,  "I  knowed  we  was  looking  for 
trouble  with  thiccy  aboard." 

He  saw  how,  in  the  darkness,  the  man's  lips  were 
groping  after  words.  Then,  irritated  at  the  loss  of  his 
sleep,  he  felt  for  a  light,  his  eyelids  swollen,  his  chin 
sprouting  with  hair  as  grey  as  a  badger 's.  Though  first 
mate  on  a  gentleman 's  yacht,  he  was  a  fierce  man  of  the 
people  and  never  said  "Sir"  to  anybody  without  a  trucu- 
lent wink  of  his  eye  the  next  minute.  Bodinar  he  de- 
tested, as  he  detested  everything  he  could  not  fathom. 

"Asleep,  or  seems  so,"  he  said,  flashing  a  light  gently 
across  the  sleeper's  eyes.  Then  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  his  own  bunk,  he  began  to  yawn  in  cavernous  noisy 
spells. 

"The  soul — that  sinneth — it  shall  die,"  said  Bodinar 
so  loudly  that  the  mate  jumped. 

"Oh,  dry  up,"  returned  Cole,  all  agog,  however,  for 
more  explicit  information. 


220  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Is  he?"  he  exclaimed,  "is  he?"  and  crossed  the 
cabin  once  more  to  stare  at  Bodinar.  The  glow  of  the 
match  made  an  arc  of  flame  in  the  darkness  and  sputtered 
out.  The  air  of  the  cabin  was  heavy  and  stifling. 

Whenever  anything  queer  happened  in  connection 
with  Bodinar,  Mr.  Cole  rejoiced  that  he  had  wasted  no 
money  on  the  venture  up  Smyth's  Channel.  He  felt 
more  certain  than  ever  of  his  wisdom  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Bodinar  come  aboard,  since,  in  his  opinion,  she  was 
"no  cop."  Mrs.  Cole  knew  the  woman  and  Mrs.  Cole 
could  be  trusted  to  know  what  was  what,  for  not  even 
the  birth  of  twins  could  distract  her  from  her  life-work, 
that  of  cleaning  her  house  from  top  to  bottom  and 
again  from  bottom  to  top.  At  present  the  Coles  paid 
£25  a  year  in  rent,  nor  grudged  it,  though  their  prom- 
ised land  was  a  house  on  the  cliff  with  a  flag-staff  and  a 
front  garden,  the  style  of  residence  that  is  built  by  a 
merchant  skipper  retiring  on  the  profits  of  the  slop 
chest.  A  pair  who  had  such  ambitions  alternately  en- 
vied the  ill-gotten  gains  and  despised  the  slovenly  home 
of  a  woman  like  Bessie  Bodinar.  To  have  her  aboard 
was  like  carrying  a  fire  in  the  hold.  Ladies  on  a  yacht 
were,  like  weevils  or  rats,  in  the  order  of  the  day,  but 
women — ' '  Good  Lord ! ' ' 

When  the  muttering  began  again,  Cole  flung  a  sea 
boot  across  the  cabin,  lay  down  once  more  and  closed 
his  ears  to  all  interruptions,  for  it  was  the  fifth  bell 
in  the  first  watch  and  the  second  watch  was  his. 

"Tipping  her  rubbish  into  the  hold,  that's  what  the 
Old  Man's  mamma  was  about  when  she  sent  that  woman 
aboard,"  thought  the  mate. 

Nor  wras  he  far  wrong,  for  it  was  Mrs.  Knyvett  who 
had  insisted  on  the  shipment  of  Bodinar 's  wife.  In 
her  opinion  the  kettle  of  fish  which  she  called  I' affaire 
Hereford  was  quite  needlessly  complicated  by  the  pres- 
ence of  such  an  unsavoury  ingredient  as  Bessie  Bodi- 
nar. Like  a  housewife  on  the  eve  of  a  spring  clean, 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      221 

Billy's  mother  had  not  only  banished  all  lumbering 
furniture,  but  had  pushed  on  the  preparations  that 
were  to  sweep  as  many  men  as  possible  from  the  scene 
of  action. 

She  it  was  who  lined  the  saloon  bulkheads  with 
charts,  who  talked  perpetually  of  Yahgans,  of  Alacu- 
lofs,  of  the  navigation  of  the  First  Narrows,  and  the 
tides  off  Cape  Virgins,  blowing  Southward  Ho!  with 
the  persistence  of  a  trade  wind.  She  fired  Peter,  she 
caused  Uncle  Pip  Hawkins  to  glow  like  a  furnace,  she 
even  relaxed  the  lines  on  Billy's  face,  for  he  saw 
through  her  motives  and  grinned.  Yet  she  won,  for  it 
was  owing  to  her  exertions  that  on  the  last  day  of  June 
the  Pendragon  hoisteS  the  Blue  Peter  and  slipped  down 
the  fairway  of  the  Dart  like  a  merchant  adventurer  of 
long  ago. 

The  stores  were  dispatched  by  cargo  boat  from  Glas- 
gow in  charge  of  an  assay er  who  would  join  them  at 
Punta  Arenas.  Slung  between  the  masts  of  the  liner 
was  the  ten-ton  steam  tug  that  was  to  convey  them  up 
the  winding  reaches  of  Smyth's  Channel.  It  was  Uncle 
Pip  who  dispatched  this  convoy;  to  his  mind,  the  Fort- 
num  and  Mason's  stores  should  have  been  salt  junk  and 
rum,  but  he  bore  with  these  piping  times  of  armchair 
comforts  and  regarded  with  a  kindling  eye  and  a  mouth 
that  whistled  free  the  tents,  the  Marine  glue,  the  timber 
balks,  the  mercury  washer  and  spades.  It  was  the 
spades  that  attracted  the  curiosity  of  the  second  mate 
of  the  liner: 

' '  Shooting  expedition, ' '  said  Uncle  Pip  to  him  blandly. 

"Ay,"  said  the  mate  with  a  twinkle,  "ye '11  do  well, 
shooting  wi'  spades.  It's  the  newest  fashion  by  what 
they  tell  me." 

Then  he  began  marvellous  yarns  of  "Sloggett  Bay 
gold,"  where  the  prospectors  threw  away  more  money 
than  they  took  out,  for  he  knew  the  Magellan  Straits 
well.  But  he  also  told  of  a  Punta  Arenas  man  who  reg- 


222  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

ularly  disappeared  every  year  up  the  Straits  and 
returned  with  enough  gold  to  keep  him  for  twelve 
months. 

The  air  round  Uncle  Pip  was  already  ringing  with 
the  noise  of  "Pieces  of  eight"  when  in  the  yellow  dawn 
of  a  dirty  morning  he  watched  the  liner  slip  her  moor- 
ings for  the  leagues  of  sea  beyond.  Snuffing  the  wind, 
which  smelt  of  chimney  reek,  he  savoured  the  sea-tang 
and  went  home  to  set  up  a  chart-room  where  daily  he 
traced  the  red  line  that  followed  the  supposed  route 
of  the  Pendragon  past  the  Canaries,  across  the  Line, 
along  the  Brazil  coast,  to  the  west  of  the  Falklands, 
and  so  on  to  the  kelp  of  the  Magellan  Straits,  those 
straits  which  Pedro  Sarmiento  entered  by  Cape  Pillar, 
vowing  as  he  did  so  a  present  of  wax  to  the  holy  house 
of  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe  and  christening  them  "the 
Straits  of  the  Mother  of  God"  with  fine  old  heroic  faith, 
' '  in  the  name  of  the  most  Holy  Truth,  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost,  three  Persons  and  one  only  true  God  Al- 
mighty who  created  heaven  and  earth  out  of  nothing,  in 
whom  I  believe,  and  in  whom  all  true  Christians  ought 
to  believe  firmly;  and  of  the  most  holy,  ever  Virgin 
Mary,  Mother  of  God,  our  advocate,  and  more  espe- 
cially the  advocate  of  this  fleet. ' ' 

At  the  noise  made  by  the  changing  of  the  watch, 
Peter  Westlake  awoke  and  going  to  the  door  of  his  cabin, 
stood  looking  out;  he  was  uneasy,  restless,  dissatisfied, 
for  he  knew  that  steadily  and  imperceptibly,  a  web  of 
suspicion  and  distrust  was  being  woven  round  this  com- 
pany of  adventurers.  For  the  "who  is  on  my  side, 
who?"  that  challenge  which  each  man  sends  out  when 
he  finds  himself  in  strange  company,  had  been  answered 
by  the  formation  of  a  ring  of  watchers  round  Bodinar. 
Only  Billy  remained  unchanged;  his  judgment  in  sus- 
pension, he  kept  the  man  as  far  as  possible  in  the  saloon, 
often  playing  cards  with  him,  for  Bodinar  played  euchre 
as  well  as  though  he  hailed  from  California.  But  this 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      223 

line  of  Knyvett's  only  produced  a  fresh  combination 
of  elements,  for  the  ring  of  watchers  began  to  adopt  an 
attitude  of  armed  neutrality  towards  the  skipper  him- 
self. 

Then  a  green  sea  broke  on  deck  and  Cole,  turning 
back  from  the  companion-stair,  came  down  to  Peter. 
His  oilskins  were  a  comfort  in  the  foggy  place. 

"He's  been  a-talking  in  his  sleep,  or  making  out  to," 
whispered  he. 

Neither  needed  more  than  the  pronoun  to  indicate 
their  man.  Peter  had  the  queer  idea  that  they  were 
both  like  the  gulls  that  tear  a  wounded  mate  to  bits, 
rather  for  hatred  of  the  strange,  the  unusual,  than  from 
mere  lust  of  meat. 

"And  he's  got  brandy,  I'll  swear.  If  Cornelius  has 
been  got  at,  I'll  wring  his  neck  for  him."  With  that 
he  turned  on  his  heel. 

Westlake  stayed  where  he  was,  for  he  was  afraid  to 
move;  he  had  gone  back  countless  ages,  to  a  time  when 
behind  the  noises  of  the  dark  lay  the  unknown  Dread. 
Big  shapeless  things  were  around  him  in  the  rustling, 
the  sucking,  the  baffling  of  the  wind  and  tide.  He  stood 
with  head  bent  and  shoulders  humped.  This  vessel 
once  a  "Holy  Joe"  had  got  the  memory  of  the  ice- 
blink, of  the  muffled  beatings  of  the  milky  sea  in  it. 
He  had  in  his  cabin  certain  sheets  of  an  ancient  note- 
book kept  by  the  former  chaplain.  It  made  queer  read- 
ing with  its  mixture  of  Puritan  precision  and  wild  sea 
days. 

All  the  while  Westlake  was  furiously  angry  with  him- 
self ;  for  years  he  had  looked  forward  to  this  voyage  that 
was  to  have  been  the  time  of  his  life.  And  he  was  wast- 
ing it  in  foolery  like  this !  He  was  like  a  man  who,  em- 
bracing a  fair  soft  mistress,  found  her  turned  into  a 
gorgon. 

Cheeks  flaming,  heart  thumping,  with  an  effort  he 
moved  and  flung  open  the  door  of  Cole's  cabin. 


224  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Bodinar  was  rummaging  in  his  sea-chest,  his  arms 
plunged  to  the  armpits  in  a  welter  of  clothes.  With  a 
start  he  withdrew  them  and  sat  on  his  heels  looking  up. 
Both  men  were  startled  at  each  other,  but  both  men 
were  a  thousand  times  more  comfortable  than  they  had 
been  when  alone.  On  a  table  stood  a  half  empty  glass 
and  the  place  smelt  of  brandy. 

He  was  only  pretending  to  be  asleep,  thought  Peter, 
and  registered  another  point  to  be  communicated  to  Cole. 

"Bodinar,"  said  Peter,  suddenly  resolute,  as  he 
watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  shaggy  fell  of  hair  on 
the  man's  half -bare  breast,  "what  the  deuce  is  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  Here's  Cole  says  you've  been  talking  in 
your  sleep,  and — " 

He  glanced  at  the  glass  on  the  table. 

"And,"  said  Bodinar  as,  recovering  himself  and  his 
temper,  he  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  drained  it  to 
the  last  drop,  "here's  to  all  the  spying,  chattering,  key- 
hole watching  crew  of  this  here  durned  rat-trap." 

Laughing  at  the  change  in  the  man,  Peter  drew  back ; 
he  felt  as  cheery  now  as  the  man  who  has  lit  a  crackling 
fire. 

"So  the  mate  heard  me,  did  he?"  went  on  Bodinar. 
"Well,  let  'en  and  if  they  never  sight  the  gold,  they'll 
have  but  themselves  to  thank  for  it.  For  I  tell  you 
plainly,  sir,  all  this  spying  fairly  sets  my  head  in  a 
maze.  And  I  see  things,  things  I  don't  like." 

He  put  a  hand  to  his  forehead  and  swayed  to  a  seat, 
his  brain  whirling  with  drink  and  some  interior  vision. 

"Bodinar,"  persisted  Peter,  "do  you  believe  in  this 
gold  yourself?  or  are  you  terrified  at  finding  that  you 
bit  off  more  than  you  could  chew  that  night  when  you 
told  us  the  yarn  ?  For  if  it  was  a  lie,  then  you  're  in  the 
wrong  box,  my  friend." 

"Lie?  Who  says  it  was  a  lie?  There  I  showed  you 
the  pay-dirt.  Hadn't  I  got  it?  And  I  showed  you 
where  it  come  from.  What  more  do  you  want  than 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      225 

that?  Gold,  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,"  said  he 
sleepily.  " Mineral  wealth,  all  up  the  Straits." 

He  produced  a  screw  of  paper  and  unrolling  it,  tossed 
out  on  the  table  a  little  heap  of  copper  ore.  A  book 
slipped  off  the  man's  bunk  and  Peter  Westlake,  picking 
it  up,  held  it  in  his  hands  for  a  moment.  It  was  a 
sixpenny  translation  of  "  La  Dame  aux  Camelias. ' '  See- 
ing it  in  his  hand,  Bodinar  changed  his  tone,  for  he  had 
begun  life  as  a  Methodist. 

"It's  a  queer  book  that,"  said  he.  "I  didn't  know 
what  sort  of  a  thing  it  was  when  I  got  it.  There's  rum 
things  in  that  book;"  he  blinked  at  Peter  with  a  libidi- 
nous eye.  "I'm  all  for  Miss  Braddon,"  added  he  pi- 
ously. 

Peter  nodded,  for  he  knew  the  South  Sea  Bible. 

"You  mustn't  judge  me  by  the  books  I  read,"  said 
the  man,  no  longer  complacent.  He  was  quickly  dis- 
solving into  self-pity,  his  eyelids  quivered,  his  arms 
dropped  at  his  sides.  Peter  went  out  hastily  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  for  he  had  no  wish  to  see  any  more. 
He  was  again  vexed  at  the  way  the  human  element  was 
getting  between  him  and  that  gift  on  which  he  had 
counted,  the  fine  freedom  of  the  sea. 

The  phrase  seemed  a  mockery  as  he  stood  on  the  deck 
next  morning  watching  the  Pendragon  in  the  fog  that 
cut  the  tops  of  the  masts  off  waist  high  and  shrouded 
everything  above  it  in  a  blanket  of  dirty  dun  colour. 
The  voice  was  stifled  as  in  cotton  wool  and  the  decks 
were  wet  with  the  mists  that  crept  across  the  face.  The 
eye  in  vain  tried  to  pierce  the  dark  wall  of  the  unknown 
that  hemmed  it  in  on  every  side ;  in  the  effort  to  plumb 
the  mist  the  fancy  created  cavernous  yawning  depths 
that  opened,  to  show  the  fog  breaking  on  towering 
steamer  sides.  Only  the  sickly  yellow  of  the  binnacle 
lamp  became  more  luminous  as  the  daylight  broadened. 
Only  the  eyes  found  rest  in  watching  the  fibrous  grip 
of  the  helmsman,  an  old  seaman,  scarred  and  twisted 


226  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

like  a  gnarled  tree,  with  ingrowing  finger  nails  black- 
ened with  grime.  The  deft  agility  of  these  crippled 
hands  made  the  mind  feel  less  helpless  against  this 
strange  power  of  nature  that  binds  and  holds,  that  blinds 
and  deafens.  Old  Maintop's  trick  at  the  wheel  was  a 
comfort,  for  the  stillness  was  as  oppressive  as  are  long 
days  of  solitude.  The  mind  was  forced  back  on  itself; 
it  fed  on  its  own  substance  and  the  hours  of  the  watch 
seemed  endless,  for  the  silence  of  the  stars  is  less  lone- 
some than  a  fog-encircled  world  where  the  mind  dreads 
what  the  eye  cannot  see. 

Then  Knyvett  stepped  up  to  the  steering  gear  and 
"Westlake  watched  him  as  he  stood  gulping  down  the 
coffee  Cornelius  had  brought.  He  had  been  on  deck 
all  night,  conning  the  ship  like  a  goal-keeper  who 
watches  the  whole  game  for  the  sake  of  a  minute 's  quick 
resourcefulness.  Plainly,  too,  he  had  enjoyed  himself; 
his  movements  were  quick,  alert;  his  eyes  bright  and 
keen,  for  all  the  strain  round  them.  Peter  heard  after- 
wards of  the  steamer  that  had  for  an  instant  split  the 
curtain  of  fog,  of  the  quick  orders,  of  the  churning  of 
the  waters  as  the  yacht  parted  company  with  her. 

The  two  men  looked  aloft;  faintly  one  yard-arm 
peeped  and  then  another;  monstrous  far  above  they 
seemed.  Then  a  canvas  showed  for  a  second  and  they 
could  perceive  currents  in  the  fog  that  the  next  moment 
closed  overhead  like  a  huge  bat. 

"Wind's  freshening,"  said  Knyvett;  "we  shall  be  out 
of  it  in  an  hour." 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  there  was  the  ripple  of  a 
catspaw  on  the  water  ahead,  the  first  sight  of  sea  for 
all  that  morning.  Then  catspaws  every  way  and  finally 
the  gleam  of  sun  that  makes  the  eyes  smart.  It  was  as 
good  as  a  fair  landfall. 

With  a  yawn  and  a  stretch  Knyvett  went  below. 

"Yes,  it's  been  a  bit  thick,"  said  Cole  to  Peter,  later 
on,  "but  about  that  Bodinar  now?" 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE     227 

The  decks  were  a-wash,  for  the  ship's  toilet  was  to- 
ward. 

"Damn  the  man,"  said  Peter. 

They  kept  Mrs.  Bodinar  under  hatches,  so  to  say,  in 
those  days,  for  fear  her  husband  should  catch  sight  of 
a  flirt  of  skirts  round  a  doorway.  Every  man- jack 
aboard,  in  fact,  was  occupying  his  spare  moments  with 
Rabelaisian  visions  of  the  first  meeting  between  this 
red-bearded  Ulysses  and  his  Penelope.  Billy  Knyvett 
was  much  exercised  to  end  this  game  of  hide  and  seek, 
but  Mrs.  Bodinar  dreaded,  like  most  women,  the  de- 
cisive cast  of  the  dice.  To  live  in  a  bliss  dini-descried 
she  much  preferred  to  a  feverish  plunge  into  possible 
misery. 

Bodinar  was  close  on  her  tracks  half  a  score  of  times 
at  least.  Once,  for  instance,  when  she  was  engaged  in 
tidying  the  first  mate's  cabin  only  a  call  from  deck  pre- 
vented Bodinar  from  coming  on  the  scandalous  sight  of 
a  woman  turning  out  his  bunk  and  looking  like  a  vine- 
gar bottle  at  his  novels  of  high,  not  to  say  rank,  ad- 
venture. For  in  those  days  Bodinar  took  nips  of  cay- 
enne, swallowed  chillies  whole  and  spiced  his  mental  food 
to  match. 

The  introduction  came  at  length  over  a  dinner  which 
the  man  began,  as  usual,  by  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his 
chair  and  coughing  gently  at  intervals  behind  the  back 
of  his  hand.  His  conversation  at  such  moments  verged 
on  the  precious  in  style,  till  by  food  and  drink  he  mel- 
lowed. At  last  came  to  him,  by  the  hands  of  Cornelius, 
a  fateful  plate  of  beef-steak  pie. 

"Never,"  said  he,  craning  his  neck  to  look  at  the 
contents  of  the  other  plates,  "never  have  I  seen  any- 
body but  the  ONE  that  rolled  meat  for  a  pie  with  the 
fat  in  the  middle  of  each  roll. ' ' 

The  company  glanced  guiltily  at  Cornelius,  who 
coughed  in  gingerly  but  significant  fashion.  The  meat 
rolls  were  the  rolls  of  Bessie  Bodinar,  but  the  pastry 


228  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

was  the  pastry  of  Cornelius,  fairy  light,  not  stodgy. 
In  Simon's  mind  there  were  certain  lines  of  suspicion 
like  the  tracks  across  the  moor  that  are  kept  marked 
by  the  passing  of  stray  footsteps.  In  these  days  his 
thoughts  incessantly  turned  Bessie-wards,  for  she  was 
about  him  in  his  uprising  as  in  his  lying  down.  Thus, 
for  instance,  when  he  saw  the  boy  being  dosed  with 
poppy  wine  for  stomach  ache,  he  could  not  but  ask 
himself  how  the  deuce  could  poppy  wine  get  aboard 
the  Pendragon,  for  it  was  Bessie's  remedy  for  every- 
thing, from  chills  to  heart  complaint.  Long  before  he 
actually  clapped  eyes  on  her,  he  had  been  living  in 
her  atmosphere.  To-night,  at  the  style  of  cutting,  at 
the  succulence  of  the  onions  in  the  duck,  he  sat  and 
gazed,  and  when  the  carver's  spoon  fetched  out  a 
sodden  lemon  pulp,  he  fairly  started. 

"It's  the  very  spit  of  Bessie's  cooking,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "How  it  brings  her  back!  A  man  may  be 
thankful  when  he  hasn't  got  to  handle  a  woman  that 
blows  like  a  trade-wind,  steady,  steady,  and  always 
with  a  gentle  pull  agin  ye.  It's  worriting.  Tidn't 
natural  when  ye  find  a  woman  going  to  bed  and 
getting  up  next  morning,  day  after  day,  in  the  same 
mind." 

"Did  you  ever  know  one  like  that?"  asked  Billy, 
leaning  forward  with  a  fellow  feeling  for  the  man. 

"Ay,  Bessie,"  said  Bodinar.  "When  us  first  mar- 
ried her  kept  a  lodging  house  with  lace  curtains  to 
every  window.  I  dunno  when  I  was  more  comfortable 
than  the  first  few  months  of  our  wedded  life.  And  a 
piano  in  the  drawing-room.  Many  a  time  have  I 
vamped  out  a  tune  upon  it.  Her  could  do  a  steak-and- 
kidney  pudding  for  a  prince,  and  after  sea-pie  and 
lobscouse  and  hard  tack,  you  can  do  with  a  steak  and 
kidney. 

"But  it  didn't  last.  Her  got  too  near  with  the 
mpney.  Said  I  spent  too  much  upon  grog,  and  cut  my 


baccy  down  to  eighteen-pence  a  week.  Shameful,  I  call 
it,  with  me  cox  of  the  Brixham  life-boat.  Said  I  must 
turn  to  and  work,  and  the  house  filled  with  lodgers  and 
her  up  washing  dishes  till  midnight  every  day  of  the 
week.  Such  ingratitude  as  her  was  showing  to  me,  for 
I  used  to  hang  about  the  doorstep,  pipe  in  mouth,  so's 
to  give  an  air  of  the  briny  to  the  house.  Worth  scores 
of  pounds  in  advertisement  I  was,  with  my  jersey  and 
high  sea  boots.  I  never  begrudged  the  wearing  of  'em, 
for  they  used  to  say  that  to  see  me  was  nearly  as  good 
as  to  go  to  sea  for  a  week.  And  without  the  seasick- 
ness, too. 

"Then  it  come.  Thunderclap  it  was,  too.  Says  she: 
'I've  filled  up  every  corner  of  the  house  and  'tis  ill- 
convenient  for  you  to  stay  here.  In  fact,  you  must  go. 
For  I've  no  more  use  for  'ee.  If  this  is  having  a 
husband,  I'd  rather  be  without  one.  So  you  can  clear 
— for  good.' 

"  'Bessie,'  said  I,  'isn't  there  a  cranny,  not  a  fold-up 
bed  in  the  kitchen  what  I  could  have?' 

"  'Not  a  sugar-box,'  says  she,  sneering. 

"  'If  I  quit,  I  quit  for  good.' 

"  'That's  what  I  meant,'  said  she. 

"And  I  went,  for  I  thought  she'd  soon  call  me  back. 
But  her  didn't,  being  a  woman  blind  of  understanding 
and  like  a  mule. 

"A  whole  year  passed;  I'd  been  knocking  about, 
coaling  and  that,  when  one  dirty  November  night  I  got 
round  to  her  doorstep.  Thinks  I,  'tis  the  dull  season, 
and  there'll  be  room  for  a  homeless  cat — or  a  sailor 
man.  That's  what  I  felt  like  when  I  seed  they  windows 
with  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains  and  the  polish  on 
the  door-handle.  Done  with  'Bluebell,'  it  was  every 
day.  Up  the  steps  I  went  and  rings.  And  there  I 
stood,  a  great  galumph,  with  my  hat  in  my  hands  and 
the  rain  running  off  my  oilskins.  Then  an  idee  struck 
me.  'Can  I  have  rooms,  ma'am?'  said  I.  'Drawing- 


230  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

room  floor  I  should  prefer.  Expense  no  object,  but  a 
fire  constant,  me  being  from  sunny  climes.' 

"  'A  single  man?'  said  she,  staring  and  sizing  me  up. 

"  'Single  and  blessed,'  said  I. 

"Well,  I  took  they  rooms  and  stayed  there  a  week. 
Stayed  three.  And  but  for  a  sort  of  a  curl  at  the 
corner  of  her  lips  Bessie  never  gave  a  sign  her  knowed 
rue.  But  her  cookery!  Oh,  scrumptious!  Cauli- 
flower with  sauce;  boiled  mutton  and  turnips;  rabbits 
and  onions,  a  tender  dish  like  sucking-pig.  You  see  I 
was  the  only  lodger. 

"But  I  warn't  happy.  For  her'd  sing  about  the 
house  and  go  out  evenings.  And  I  couldn't  tell  what 
was  up.  I  was  pretty  dashed,  I  can  tell  you  about 
what  to  do.  Then  Joe  Craddick  lent  me  a  book,  one 
by  a  chap  called  Jacobs,  that  by  the  look  of  it  knows 
all  there  is  to  know  about  sailormen.  And  there  'twas 
all  in  black  and  white  how  a  fellow  come  back,  same  as 
me,  lodged  with  his  wife,  and  got  another  chap  to  break 
into  the  house,  so  that  her  should  be  made  to  scritch 
to  her  lawful  husband  for  protection  against  the  burglar, 
and  so  make  it  up  with  him.  Says  Joe  Craddick  to  me, 
'Can  you  work  it,  Sim?' 

"And  us  did.  One  night  he  broke  a  pane  of  glass 
in  the  pantry  window,  and  got  into  the  house.  He'd 
blacked  his  eyebrows  and  put  on  a  beard.  And  up  he 
comes,  stump,  stump,  up  the  stairs.  I'd  got  my  room 
door  ajar,  ready  to  rush  out  and  knock  'en  down,  the 
very  minute  Bessie  should  cry,  'Save  me,  save  me, 
Sim!'" 

' '  And  did  she  ? ' '  asked  Billy  breathlessly. 

"Did  she?"  said  he  witheringly.  "Not  she.  Out  her 
comes  on  the  landing  and  gets  a  good  look  at  Craddick. 
His  beard  was  all  awry,  and  then  her  says  soft  and 
quiet  to  me  behind  the  door,  'Mr.  Pascoe,  if  any  of 
your  other  friends  should  want  to  see  you,  kindly  ask 
them  to  call  a  little  earlier  in  the  evening  than  two 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE     231 

o'clock  in  the  night.     And  there's  a  pane  of  glass  that'll 
have  to  be  paid  for.' 

"Craddick,  holding  the  jemmy  he'd  brought  like  a 
poker,  stood  for  a  minute  and  stared.  Then  he  quit. 
Bessie  had  to  open  the  front  door  to  him. 

"An  awful  woman,"  continued  he,  "but  clever. 
Her'd  seen  the  book  open,  and  marked  where  that  chap 
Jacobs  had  planked  it  down  about  the  sham  burglar. 
I  'd  been  fool  enough  to  leave  it  about,  and  me  not  being 
a  reading  man,  her  wondered  what  I  was  up  to  with  it. 

"I  pretty  nigh  lost  all  hope  then,  till  it  come  to 
Christmas.  'Twas  dinner-time,  Christmas  Day,  and 
there  upon  my  table  in  that  dull  old  drawing-room  up- 
stairs it  stood — my  Christmas  dinner;  a  helping  of 
fowl,  all  white  with  crackling  skin,  bread  sauce,  brussels 
sprouts  and  brown,  rich  gravy.  Lord,  it  brought  the 
tears  to  my  eyes !  'Twas  a  blow-out  fit  for  an  admiral. 
And  then  there  was  a  slice  of  plum-pudding  and  a 
mince  pie.  I  sot  down  and  thought. 

"Me  up  here  all  lonely  and  cold  with  that  fowl,  and 
her  down  there  in  that  warm  old  kitchen.  And  when 
I  saw  her'd  given  me  the  wishing-bone  of  the  chicken, 
I  sat  there — and  blubbered.  Real  tears  come,  I  give  you 
my  word." 

"Well?"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  I  down  to  the  kitchen  with  that  helping  of 
fowl.  Her  told  me  next  day  that  I'd  splashed  the 
gravy  on  every  step. 

"  'Bessie,'  said  I  from  the  doorway,  'I  can't  bear  it 
no  more.  Take  me  back,  will  'ee?  This  here  wishing- 
bone's  broke  down  all  my  pride.  There's  to  be  carols 
to-night.  Us '11  go  to  'em,  arm-in-crook,  and  to-morrow 
I  '11  clean  the  boots. 

'  '  Sim, '  says  she,  and  makes  a  dash  at  me. 

"  'Bessie,'  said  I,  all  comfortable  with  her  at  last, 
'why  for  goodness,  did'ee  stand  out  so  long?  You  must 
have  known  what  I  was  after  all  this  time.' 


232  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"  'Sim,'  says  she,  'I  reckoned  I'd  bring  you  to  your 
marrow-bones.  I  wasn't  going  to  have  any  high  and 
mighty  ways  with  My  husband.' 

"I  sometimes  wish  I'd  got  her  back,"  continued  he, 
"for  her  wasn't  a  bad  old  bit  of  all  right — till  her  took 
to  her  mother's  ways.  But  that  wasn't  till  I'd  gone 
down  under,  gone  down  under  for  good,  I  reckon. ' ' 

Slowly  the  door  behind  him  was  pushed  further  ajar. 
Knyvett  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  with  one  hand 
pressed  on  the  table,  his  left  eye  twitching  as  it  did 
when  he  was  excited.  His  long,  brown,  lantern-jawed 
face,  apart  from  that,  was  almost  red  Indian  in  its 
taciturn  expression. 

"Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings,"  said  he,  with 
a  smile  curling  round  his  lips.  "Come  in,  Mrs.  Bodi- 
nar.  I  guess  you're  wanted  after  all." 

Bodinar  rose,  chap-fallen,  to  his  feet. 

"Then,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  "the  poppy  wine  was 
yours  and  I'm  not  so  mad  as  I  thought.  Good  Lord! 
What  I  felt  when  I  saw  they  steak  rolls!  Bessie,  did 
you  make  that  pie?" 

"Not  the  crust,  Sim,  not  the  crust,"  sobbed  she. 

"Well,  I'm— gallied,"  clucked  Mr.  Cole. 

"But  I  never  said  you  splashed  the  gravy  on  the 
stairs,  Sim,  I  never  did.  I  was  as  glad  as  glad  to 
hear  'ee  come  clop,  clop,  down  the  stairs.  Do'ee  mind 
how  steep  they  was  ? ' ' 

"Ay,"  said  he,  eyeing  her.  "It  is  you,  Bessie,  isn't 
it?" 

"It  is,  it  is.  I've  give  up  the  bad  trade,  too,  though 
there's  a  mort  o'  money  in  it.  I've  give  it  all  the  slip, 
all  what  you  hate." 

"Andthechillern?" 

"With  Maria.  'Twas  the  chillern  that  began  it, 
Sim." 

"It  was  so,  Bessie." 

"Say  you're  glad  to  see  me,  Sim,  say  it." 


ARGONAUTS  OP  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE     233 

"Well,  you're  aboard,  there's  no  gainsaying  that, 
and  I  suppose  you  '11  have  to  stay.  But  how  many  more 
petticoats  be  in  hiding?" 

''Ne'er  a  one.  But,  oh,  Sim,  the  first  few  days  and 
the  rolling  of  my  innerds!  'Twas  as  if  I  was  being 
creamed  up  and  down." 

But  he  was  serious,  now  that  the  impropriety  of  the 
whole  proceedings  struck  him  between  the  eyes.  Mrs. 
Bodinar  divined  it,  for  he  had  always  been  "strict  with 
her." 

"'Twas  Mrs.  Knyvett  that  settled  it,  and  she  ought 
to  know,  a  lady  like  that.  And,  oh,  Sim,  I  was  sick 
for  'ee,  I  was.  Strike  me  dead,  if  I  wasn't.  Said  I 
to  the  chillern,  'I'm  going  away  to  dad.'  : 

"Poor  old  gel,"  said  he,  "a  bit  filled  out,  but  not 
so  bad,  after  all,  considering  your  years."  There  de- 
scended upon  him  the  instinct  of  possession,  of  which  is 
made  up  nine-tenths  of  the  bliss  of  the  long-wedded 
man. 

At  this  juncture  the  company  thought  fit  to  retire, 
only  the  boy  put  his  head  in  from  the  pantry : 

"You  bain't  half  a  man,"  said  he  encouragingly  to 
Bodinar.  "Why  don't  'ee  take  her  round  the  waist?" 

"Ay,  why  don't  I?"  asked  he.  "There's  no  just 
cause  or  impediment,  is  there,  Bessie?" 

"None,"  said  she. 

So  Sim  and  Bessie  were  united — en  secondes  noces, 
so  to  say. 

But  Mrs.  Bodinar  would  never  have  made  such  a  good 
landfall  as  this  had  there  not  been  strange  affinities 
between  herself  and  Mrs.  Knyvett.  For  the  poorer 
woman  had  failed  exactly  where  the  richer  one  could 
feel  the  sting  of  failure,  namely,  in  ruling  her  world 
— her  man  and  her  bairns  and  the  strange  entities  that 
do  squeak  and  gibber  at  the  seances  of  modern  witch- 
craft. In  Mrs.  Knyvett,  lying  like  a  hidden  rock  in  a 
river,  there  was  embedded  a  vein  of  mysticism  which 


234  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

caused  her  to  hanker  after  the  secrets  of  other  planes 
than  the  grossly  material.  And,  like  the  small  per- 
sonal habits  that  link  or  divide  more  distinctly  than 
creeds,  one's  attitude  towards  the  occult  marks  the  cali- 
bre of  the  personality  more  inevitably  than  either  rank 
or  education. 

Partly,  too,  it  was  Mrs.  Knyvett's  love  of  the  definite 
that  attracted  her  to  that  Eastern  philosophy  which 
maps  out  the  planes  of  the  supersensual  in  colours  as 
simple  as  a  Mereator's  projection  in  a  modern  atlas. 
Alternately  repelled  by  the  chicanery  and  folly  of  the 
mediums  and  attracted  by  the  apparent  simplicity  of 
Theosophic  explanations,  she  hovered,  an  uneasy  ghost 
between  Haeckel  and  the  Bhagavad  Gita. «  It  was  a 
matter  of  unfeigned  rejoicing  to  her  to  hear  that  the 
Royal  Society  talked  of  a  land  arising  in  the  Pacific, 
thus  unconsciously  verifying  the  Eastern  prediction  that 
a  new  continent  is  in  course  of  preparation  for  a  new 
race.  The  name  of  Nietzsche  was  to  her  a  red  rag  to 
a  bull :  yet  no  one  believed  more  firmly  than  she  that 
man  is  a  bridge,  not  a  goal. 

To  a  woman  of  these  views  Mrs.  Bodinar  seemed  like 
a  sort  of  unholy  temple  of  the  obscene  gods ;  she  would 
not  attempt  to  deny  the  possibility  of  witchcraft,  she 
would  only  hate  it  as  a  pandering  to  the  baser  instincts. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  had  been  able  to  reconstruct  the  tale 
Bessie  told  her.  She  could  grasp,  too,  the  character  of 
the.  man  in  it,  the  quickly  fired  imagination,  the  long- 
ing to  get  a  leverage  by  which  he  could  make  things 
move,  the  straining  against  the  bonds  of  circumstance 
in  him.  Most  working  men  accept  the  fact  of  their 
individual  powerlessness.  This  was  what  Simon  could 
not  do;  he  even  hated  the  rich  man's  use  of  electricity 
and  steam. 

Like  his  wife,  Bodinar  was  Brixham  born,  though 
originally  his  forebears  had  been  moor-folk  of  the  West 
Cornwall  district.  It  was  from  a  Bodinar  offshoot  that 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      235 

he  had  inherited  an  ancient  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  tors  that  cluster  at  the  base  of  Great  Kneeset.  To 
that  homestead  the  pair  removed  a  few  years  after  mar- 
riage with  the  intention  of  wresting  a  living  from  the 
moors  instead  of  the  sea.  From  the  stubs  and  the 
turves  they  made  their  fire,  just  as  their  ancestors  had 
used  the  moorland  granite  to  build  the  walls  of  the 
two-storied  dwelling  with  its  huge  chimneys  that  in 
every  bedroom  jutted  out  like  squatting  figures  of 
Buddha  in  whitewashed  masonry.  They  milked  the 
moor  like  a  great  cow;  it  gave  them  whortleberries  for 
their  jam  and  bracken  bedding  for  their  pig. 

Brown  and  lusty,  eating  huge  meals  after  their 
tramps,  they  watched  the  hoarded  sixpences  grow.  He 
"tealed"  the  garden  and  she  nursed  the  chickens  and 
helped  the  bees  to  their  labours.  Both  found  their 
labour  good.  Broad-backed  and  brown  as  October  ale, 
they  would  play  horse-tricks  on  one  another  like  wild 
Indians. 

Then  the  shadow  fell,  the  prelude  to  the  coming  of 
a  child.  She  would  not  believe  it  at  first  and  went  off 
to  a  wise  woman  in  Exeter.  That  night  Simon  found 
her  in  a  chair  before  the  fire  with  her  apron  over  her 
head,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro.  It  was  not  pain  that 
she  feared,  but  change,  for  Simon  had  left  her  once  or 
twice  already.  And  would  he  stand  the  muck  and 
muddle  of  a  child-rearing  house?  She  fought,  how- 
ever, and  went  "stubbing"  on  the  moors  to  the  last 
minute.  It  was  a  wonder  the  child  was  born  under  a 
roof. 

Everything  dropped  from  her  hands  then,  for  the 
fieldwoman  was  no  neat  housewife,  no  mother.  Squalor 
came  upon  her,  and  drink  upon  him,  for  it  was  her 
constant  companionship,  in  neck  and  neck  running  side 
by  side,  that  had  kept  him  straight.  Now  she  had  to 
stay  at  home  and  rock  the  cradle.  The  cottage  grew 
hateful,  so  they  let  it  with  the  old  Windsor  chairs  and 


236  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

China  dogs  to  an  artist  and  came  back  to  Brixham. 
One  thing  he  had  not  lost,  his  animal  courage,  so  he 
took  to  the  sea  as  of  old  and  she  stayed  at  home  to  feed 
the  children  by  her  ancestral  trade,  the  trade  that 
seemed  the  last  nail  in  the  coffin  of  Simon's  self-re- 
spect. 

The  only  pride  he  felt  now — and  pride  was  necessary 
to  him — was  his  sense  of  his  skill  as  a  seaman,  his  belief 
in  his  own  stores  of  secret  knowledge.  Amid  the  sickly 
miasma  that  gathered  round  them  both  from  her  for- 
tune telling,  he  would  withdraw  his  mind  to  these 
hidden  delights.  As  a  boy  he  had  kept  a  treasure-box, 
stored  with  wych-hazel  divining  rods  and  such  like; 
as  a  man  he  collected  sailors'  yarns  of  treasure  trove  in 
Pacific  Islands  or  on  the  riven  cliffs  of  Trinidad.  "When 
he  drew  charts  and  made  calculations  he  felt  himself 
in  possession  of  secret  power. 

" Hungry,  that's  what  he  was,"  said  Bessie. 

"You  want  to  go  with  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Knyvett. 
"You  know  it'll  be  a  fearful  tossing  for  you." 

Secret  fear  leapt  in  Mrs.  Bodinar. 

"I  want,"  said  she,  "to  be  there  when  they  learn 
the  outs  of  the  voyage." 

"When,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  quickly,  "they  find 
they  've  been  cheated,  you  mean  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Bodinar 's  eyes  flashed,  then  filled  with  tears. 

"Ma'am,"  said  she,  "I  know  no  more  than  the  dead. 
Gold-dust  he  had,  but  'twas  gravel  as  I  turned  out  of 
his  breeches,  not  black  dust  at  all.  I  dunno.  My 
head's  all  addled  to  think  upon  it." 

"Mrs.  Bodinar,  if  I  induce  my  son  to  keep  his  word 
and  take  you,  will  you  do  what  I  ask  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie.  "For  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  stay 
here,  not  knowing  what's  going  on  t'other  side  of  the 
world.  And  I  want  to  get  away  from  what's  following 
me.  You  know,  ma'am.  Oh,  let  me  go,  make  it  so  that 
I  can  go ! " 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      237 

"Then  tell  me  where  you  think  the  weak  spot  in  this 
story  lies." 

"I  misdoubt,"  said  Mrs.  Bodinar  slowly,  "what  hap- 
pened between  Simon  and  the  chemist  that  give  'en 
back  the  gold-dust.  The  name,  they  say,  was  Pycroft. 
Well,  it's  Pycroft  I  want  to  see." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett;  to  her  mind  the  woman's 
answer  revealed  more  knowledge  than  she  was  willing 
to  confess.  Bodinar  must  have  had  rascally  dealings 
ere  this  and  Bessie  knew  it.  No  doubt  Coronel,  like 
most  outland  towns  of  South  America,  was  full  of  men 
who  were  wanted.  Over  there,  with  her  knowledge  of 
her  husband's  past,  Mrs.  Bodinar  would  be  invaluable 
in  unearthing  the  secrets  of  this  pesky  puzzle  which  was 
beginning  to  irritate  Mrs.  Knyvett  intensely.  For  to 
see  her  Billy  busy  over  it,  he  who  had  managed  works 
that  were  national  affairs,  was  to  this  proud  woman  a 
festering  pin-prick. 

' '  You  see,  ma  'am, ' '  said  Bessie,  following  up  her  own 
affairs,  "I've  got  to  get  rid  of  something,  too.  You 
catch  spirits  in  the  air,  you  do.  They  get  all  round 
you,  nasty  evil  things.  Ugh!  I  can  see  'em.  They 
cling  round  like  a  smell.  But  they  say  you  can  shake 
'em  off  if  you  go  down,  down,  down,  with  the  world 
slipping  by  underneath  you.  You'm  changed.  You 
slip  by  the  seasons,  quick,  as  if  a  year  had  gone  over 
your  head  like  a  flash." 

Mrs.  Knyvett 's  heart  leapt,  for  she,  too,  was  count- 
ing much  on  the  sea  magic.  She  wanted  the  tang  of 
the  salt  winds  for  her  son ;  the  smell  would  be  antiseptic. 
She  remembered  how,  as  a  child,  she  had  loved  to  open 
the  old  book  in  which  her  father  had  pasted  his  collec- 
tion of  seaweeds!  Acrid,  clean  it  was,  like  the  smell 
of  pitch,  yet  with  a  wildness  of  flavour  that  knew 
nothing  of  building  yards. 

"You  shall  go,"  said  she  firmly.  But  it  was  with 
Uncle  Pip  that  she  had  had  her  fiercest  battle. 


238  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Women  aboard!"  cried  he,  "cluttering  up  the 
scuppers  like  broody  hens.  Fool-talk !  What !  does  the 
man  want  a  wet-nurse  then?" 

"If,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett  firmly,  "there  is  ever  going 
to  be  any  unravelling  of  this  mystery,  this  hen  has 
to  go  on  the  cruise." 

"Mystery!"  snorted  he,  "who  said  there  was  any 
mystery  ? ' ' 

"And  if  there  wasn't,"  snapped  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
"wouldn't  a  certain  gentleman  adventurer  not  three 
feet  from  me  feel  rather  flat?  And,  by  the  way,  I'm 
not  deaf,  you  needn't  use  a  fog-horn." 

In  her  anxiety  to  get  Billy  away,  her  temper  was 
wearing  thin. 

"God!  Madam,  don't  lose  your  temper.  /  don't 
care  whether  the  poor  cuss  goes  or  not." 

"And  the  poor  cuss  will  be  practically  useful,"  said 
Mrs.  Knyvett  drily,  "for  she's  the  only  person  who  is 
personally  interested  in  making  Bodinar  walk  in  a 
straight  line." 

The  wisdom  of  Uncle  Pip  could  not  deny  this.  So, 
in  dead  of  night,  Mrs.  Bodinar  had  been  smuggled 
aboard,  accompanied  by  a  great  number  of  corded  boxes 
which  she  lashed  round  the  bunk  on  which  she  slept 
like  a  Bedouin  encamped  in  the  desert. 

In  those  days,  ere  she  made  that  beef-steak  pie,  she 
dwelt  much  in  memories,  always  of  her  time  among  the 
moors,  for  the  steadfastness  of  the  hills  was  a  comfort 
in  a  tossing  universe  where  the  swaying  lamp  filled  her 
with  a  sickly  horror.  She  remembered  how  on  the 
moors  lost  lamb  and  wandering  ewe  would  bleat  afar, 
then  rush  together,  with  much  joy  of  tail-wagging. 
Would  she  meet  Bodinar  like  that — apart  of  course  from 
the  matter  of  the  tail  ? 

Deliberately  between  herself  and  the  chaos  of  this 
hurtling  world  of  wind  and  sea  she  set  the  image  of  the 
Great  Earth;  the  wash  of  waves,  she  called  the  lash 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      239 

of  rain  on  the  roof ;  the  wind  in  the  shrouds,  the  whistle 
of  zephyrs  through  the  trees.  Every  hook  on  which  it 
was  possible  for  the  imagination  to  hang  fair  broidery 
of  phantasy  she  used.  The  yellow  milk  from  the  ship's 
goat  was  rich  pasture-fed  ooze  of  clover  or  violet ; 
the  crowing  from  the  deck-coops  was  sweet  to  her 
ears  as  morning  note  of  barnyard  ecstasy.  A  litter 
of  black  Berkshires  would  have  effaced  from  her  mind 
the  horror  of  the  hell-deep  chasms,  the  green  mountains 
of  the  Atlantic ;  in  lieu  thereof,  she  betook  herself  to 
the  galley  and  made  marmalade. 

For  always,  Nature  had  been  personified  to  her  as 
a  vast  mouth ;  the  most  interesting  part  of  mountain 
scenery  was  the  sight  of  sheep  fattening,  of  birds  wheel- 
ing through  the  air  in  search  of  flies.  Cornelius's  fish- 
ing contraptions  fascinated  her  soul,  but  she  regretted 
that  the  Atlantic  does  not  yield  blackberries,  mush- 
rooms, or  whorts.  Meanwhile  she  kept  herself  close- 
packed  as  a  cocoon  and  slept  ''all  standing";  forced 
occasionally  to  undress  for  ablutions,  she  shuffled  on 
her  clothes  in  hot  haste  as  a  knight  his  armour  when 
the  darts  are  already  hurtling  on  the  castle  walls.  She 
was  a  woman  in  an  iron  mask. 

Bird-like  the  Pendragon  flew  south  for,  leaving  the 
long  mountain  chains  of  Madeira  behind,  the  next  day 
they  caught  the  trades  in  the  latitude  of  the  Canaries. 
The  tropics  were  at  hand,  heralded  by  the  appearance 
of  the  first  flying-fish.  Nerves  lost  their  edge  in  the 
soft  freedom  of  the  steady  blowing  canvas,  nerves  that 
in  the  baffling  winds  had  crackled  with  electric  storm. 
The  crowded  earth,  the  narrow  sea  straits  were  forgot- 
ten. Steering  in  the  starlight  at  night,  Peter  "Westlake 
savoured  the  sweetness  of  the  constellations  with  a  text 
from  Job  on  his  lips;  the  Angora  cats  leapt  from  yard 
to  yard  or  basked  on  the  sunny  deck;  Cornelius  danced 
a  cake-walk  and  the  concertina  in  the  fo'c'sle  kept  time 
to  the  clucking  of  such  hens  as  wrere  not  in  the  stomachs 


240  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

of  the  saloon  passengers.  It  was  the  Barefoot  Days, 
ere  there  fell  upon  them  the  weariness  of  the  Belt  of 
Calms.  Each  reverted;  Billy  bared  his  soul  and  Cor- 
nelius his  sides.  Each  man  filled  out  to  the  globular 
shape  that  would  have  been  his,  had  not  the  attrition 
of  human  intercourse  fretted  him  down  to  a  spindle- 
legged  pair  of  compasses.  Only,  like  a  fly  in  amber, 
Bodinar  remained  unchanged,  steeping  himself  in  the 
comfort  of  his  Bessie's  petis  soins. 

Then  each  day  the  clouds  on  the  horizon  piled  them- 
selves to  hurricane  height,  but  no  rain  fell.  Towards 
night-fall  the  sky  cleared.  Only  so,  or  in  deserts,  does 
one  see  the  full  glory  of  the  star-strewn  sky,  Venus 
throwing  silver  furrows  across  the  sea,  Orion  glowing 
red  and  green  as  over  Arabian  desert.  The  shadows 
were  growing  shorter  day  by  day  and  soon  the  Magellan 
clouds  would  be  showing  near  the  Southern  Cross. 

It  was  when  pacing  the  deck  o'  nights  in  the  second 
watch  that  Billy  talked  most  freely,  for  the  changing 
heavens  o'erhead  seemed  shaking  him  loose  into  new 
latitudes  of  resolution  and  endeavour.  The  stars  they 
had  seen  so  often  over  the  misty  hollows  of  English 
meadows  were  changing  now  to  something  new;  for 
cow-parsley  and  the  wind  among  the  clapping  hands  of 
the  beeches,  they  had  the  ceaseless  rustle  of  the 
shrouds,  the  never  ending  swirl  of  waters. 

It  was  of  the  Pendr agon's  days  as  a  "Holy  Joe"  that 
they  talked  one  night.  For  Peter  would  have  it  that 
his  cabin  was  haunted  by  a  shadowy  spirit  with  ice- 
nipped  nose  and  watery  eyes,  whose  unofficial  log  Billy 
had  been  lucky  enough  to  come  upon  in  a  second-hand 
shop  in  Portsmouth.  True  it  was  that  more  than  once 
the  fell  of  seamen's  hair  had  risen  at  a  breath  in  the 
dusk  of  a  ship's  gangway.  Noises  there  were,  too, 
rustlings  from  upper  berths,  when  men  lay  still  in  terror 
to  listen  to  queer  turnings  and  heavings  overhead.  Yet 
how  was  it  possible  that  a  man  who  had  posted  lists 


all  over  the  ship  for  the  captain  to  remember  could  pos- 
sibly have  mislaid  himself  on  t'other  side  of  Jordan? 
Perhaps  he  missed  his  glazed  bag  that  accompanied  him 
everywhere.  Its  contents  were  duly  noted  in  the  log: 
"trinkets,  beads,  toys  for  natives;  needles  and  thread; 
a  few  biscuits  and  concentrated  essence  of  meat ;  matches, 
paper  and  pencils,  sketch-book,  church  service,  thickly 
printed  book  of  some  sort  to  read,"  and  so  on.  He  had 
much  trouble  with  his  mates,  men  who  "came  aboard 
with  heaven  on  their  lips  but  not  in  their  heart";  yet 
this  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  since  he  read  ' '  The  Daily 
Service  in  the  Cottage"  to  the  sailors  at  the  breakfast 
hour  and  worst  of  all,  a  missionary  work  called  "Hope 
Deferred"  that  sapped  the  courage  of  the  crew. 

"He  hadn't  any  guts,"  said  Billy,  plainly  Saxon 
this  time. 

Then  he  went  on,  from  the  sky  pilot's  work  with 
glazed  bags  and  cottage  sermons,  to  talk  of  his  own;  of 
the  long  desert  days  he  had  spent  in  building  a  dam 
in  Egypt.  Peter  could  see  him  now,  a  keen-eyed,  hard- 
bitten man  sitting  over  his  plans  in  the  light  of  his 
tent  lamp  with  the  African  moonlight  outside.  He 
spoke  of  the  trouble  with  Arab  laisser-f aire,  born  of  gen- 
erations of  sun-warmed,  date-fed  ease  in  a  land  where 
the  lash  of  an  overseer  has  always  been  the  means  of 
driving  muscle  to  its  work.  With  such  a  tool,  and  with 
no  lash  but  the  will,  had  Billy  done  his  job,  worn  to  a 
shadow,  but  buoyant  to  his  very  heart.  It  was  the 
best  time  of  his  life,  for  it  had  ousted  everything  from 
his  mind  but  the  narrow  gangway  of  accomplishment 
along  which  he  had  to  walk.  Then  there  was  that 
bridge  in  the  Punjab;  it  was  the  English  gangers  and 
the  spirit  of  the  river  he  had  fought  there.  For  this 
man  who  sought  his  peace  in  wild  places,  who  hated 
Pall  Mall  like  a  pest-house  and  felt  the  air  of  St.  James 's 
to  be  a  charnel  blast,  had  learnt  to  feel  the  spirits  of 
the  earth;  river-spirits  that  sing  in  the  vast  in-breath- 


242  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

ing  and  out-breathing  of  noise  that  they  make;  the 
spirit  of  storm  that  flies  in  the  spindrift;  the  spirit  of 
strength  that  speaks  in  the  sheep-cry  among  the  hills. 

Looking  at  him,  Peter  wished  him  back  in  the  struggle 
with  the  earth's  stubbornness.  Billy  answered  his 
thought. 

"I'm  going  back  to  my  job,"  he  said,  "  when  this 
cruise  is  over." 

Leaning  over  the  bulwarks,  swaying  to  the  cradling 
he  loved,  he  looked  over  the  foam-flecked  blackness  on 
which  they  moved.  His  eyes  had  the  far  gaze  of  the 
sailor  that  is  satisfied  with  nothing  short  of  the  horizon. 
Out  here  he,  like  the  sea  over  which  they  moved,  began 
to  assume  his  true  size.  On  over-crowded  soil  he 
shrank  to  the  size  of  the  men  about  him.  Blue  water, 
desert,  or  hills:  these  were  his  backgrounds;  trim-built 
villas  with  aspidestria  plants  in  the  windows  were  but 
cells  to  a  sea-gull.  That  was  why  he  was  so  silent  there. 

"I  was  in  an  earthquake  in  'Frisco  once,"  he  said, 
"the  queerest  thing  was  the  feeling  that  the  solid  globe 
was  melting  under  me.  A  rocking  steeple  took  away 
the  sense  of  the  eternal  hills.  One  learnt  then  how  much 
one  reckons  on  the  steadfastness  of  the  universe.  The 
mind  goes  mad  in  sight  of  chaos. 

"That  was  how  it  was  with  me  when  Sara  married. 
It  was  not  the  marriage  itself.  She  had  instincts  to 
satisfy,  she  was  a  woman.  It  was  that  I  should  have 
been  so  blind.  I  made  her  a  goddess  and  after  all  she 
was  a  woman,  waiting,  ready  to  be  wooed.  Oh,  I  cannot 
say  it—" 

With  wide  flung  hand  he  gesticulated. 

"But  the  steeples  tottered,  the  eternal  hills  were 
moved.  In  all  the  plumbless  heart  of  woman's  nature 
and  man's  there  seemed  no  foothold  even  for  an  eagle's 
rest.  God !  those  days ! ' ' 

Peter  held  his  breath,  for  the  heavens  were  opened 
and  the  deep  spoke. 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      243 

"I  thought  she  knew  what  she  was  to  me,"  said  Billy, 
on  a  lower  level  now.  "Then  I  learnt — after  a  time 
— that  what  she  was  to  me  didn't  so  much  matter,  after 
all.  It  was  what  I  was  to  her  that  mattered.  And  so 
I  stood  by,  to  help  if  need  be.  Well,  she  knows  now. 
And  after  all  the  pinnacles  may  totter,  but  the  eagle 
has  his  wings.  They  are  his  resting-place.  That  is 
Love.  What  I  could  be  to  her;  that  was  it.  All  that 
had  gone  before  was  just  instinct,  the  man  seeking  his 
mate.  And  that  had  been  snatched  from  me  by  Vin 
Hereford's  contrivance  and  Bellew's  acquiescence." 

"I'm  sorry  for  Belle w,"  said  Peter  quietly. 

"That  fellow!"  flashed  Billy,  "a  scabby  simulacrum 
of  a  man,  spoiling  the  daylight  with  his  ghastly  carcase. 
To  think  of  him  near  her!  But,"  in  lower  tones,  "he 
doesn't  touch  her  now." 

Both  men  were  silent,  Peter  dared  not  question  here, 
for  he  had  long  ago  taken  off  his  shoes. 

"Through  it,  after  all,  the  woman  remained  un- 
touched, the  essential  woman,  the  thing  that  looks  out 
of  her  eyes.  I  know  it  now.  I  didn't  then.  That  was 
hell  number  two  for  me.  Not  the  hell  of  the  rocking 
universe,  but  the  hell  of  the  creeping  worm. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  returning  to  Bellew,  "he  is,  I 
suppose,  a  poor  tool,  but  a  poor  tool  in  skilful  hands 
may  serve  to  plane  a  board.  He's  never  had  skilful 
handling  yet." 

Then  he  flushed,  knowing  that  he  blamed  Sara.  But 
Billy  never  saw  it. 

"That's  where  it  comes  in,"  said  he,  "my  mother 
swears  there's  a  woman  who  could  do  it,  who  gave  all 
once  and  who  would  give  all  again  to  save  him  from 
himself.  I  don't  know  that  he's  worth  it.  But  it's 
give,  give,  give,  with  every  woman;  every  man's  to 
her  like  the  child  she  feeds  at  her  breast.  Only  to  the 
man  she  gives  her  life-blood.  God !  what  does  the  race 
want  divine  beings  for  when  there  are  women  ? ' ' 


244  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"To  compare  them  unfavourably,"  said  Peter  slyly, 
"with  the  angels  in  petticoats,  of  course." 

Billy  laughed. 

"If  Sara  knew — what  your  mother  thinks?"  asked 
Peter  in  a  whisper. 

But  Knyvett  was  silent,  for  he  knew  the  answer  deep 
within  him,  since  her  duty  to  the  weak  ones  was  the  one 
o'ermastering  claim  that  Sara  acknowledged.  She 
would  never  stand  in  the  way  of  another  woman's  good 
wrork.  "If  she  knew?"  to  Billy  the  question  did  not 
assume  that  form  at  all;  it  was  "Will  she  ever 
know?" 

Not  from  him  certainly;  that  was  as  clear  as  the 
shining  of  an  arc-light  in  the  darkness. 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "Bellew  gets  it  all  down.  In  his 
books,  I  mean.  Have  you  ever  felt  something  grinding 
down,  down,  down  into  you  against  a  raw  tendon  ?  For 
that's  the  way  life  itches  against  our  sensitive  nerves 
nowadays.  Bellew  gets  that  impression  into  his  books 
every  time,  you  know.  The  way  women  goad  and  tor- 
ture and  madden  and  tempt — and  hold  aloof.  Or  once 
given,  fight  for  their  own  hand  and  show  that  they've 
just  sold  themselves  for  a  competence,  huckstering  like 
pigs  in  the  market  that  which  is  the  precious  jewel  of 
their  lives." 

"I  didn't  know  you  understood  that,"  said  Peter. 
"But  it's  like  that,  I  suppose." 

"Ay,"  answered  Billy,  absent-mindedly.  "But  it's  a 
tie  like  Sara's  and  mine  that  yields  the  best  of  all.  If 
I  went  away  for  twenty  years  I  should  find  her  the 
same  to  me." 

"And  perhaps  find  her  as  you  did — when  the  pinna- 
cles tottered." 

"Yes,  perhaps.  Given  to  another  man.  But  al- 
though he  might  know  her  sweet  nearness,  she  could 
never  be  to  him  what  she  is  to  me.  I  never  see  anything 
beautiful  but  what  she  speaks  to  me  in  it.  She  is  always 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      245 

present  in  my  thoughts — my  woman,  whose  undraped 
loveliness  I  have  never  known." 

Peter  moved  uneasily:  Jew  as  he  was  by  instinct  for 
imagery,  he  had  a  certain  fear  of  the  largeness  of  the 
Greek  vision  of  woman.  The  Paphian  goddess  seemed,  in 
faith,  both  to  him  and  Anne,  a  being  overlavish  of  her 
charms.  Then  the  fallacy  of  the  reasoning  struck  him : 

"There's  nothing  exclusive  in  that.  She  might  come 
to  forty  men  in  the  beauty  of  the  world.  What's  to 
prevent  a  crowd  seeing  her  where  they  will  ? ' ' 

Billy  laughed  again. 

"And  why  not?"  said  he.  "Who  am  I  to  expect  her 
to  waste  her  sweetness  on  me  alone.  You  talk  like  a 
fashionable  milliner,  Peter,  of  exclusive  designs." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  then  that  you're  content  to 
go  shares  with  all  the  world?  Don't  tell  me,  Billy,  such 
nonsense  as  that.  For  if  you  do  I  only  know  it's  a 
lie,"  exclaimed  Peter,  coming  to  the  ground  with  a 
crash  and  dragging  the  other  with  him.  The  man  beside 
him  burnt  from  within,  his  lips  tightening,  his  face 
twitching. 

"Got  home  there,"  said  Peter  to  himself  and  the  next 
moment  was  sorry;  'twas  too  much  the  act  of  a  cold- 
blooded demonstrator. 

Truth  to  tell,  Sara  was  to  Peter  but  a  handsome,  dark- 
eyed,  queenly  woman  who  sometimes  when  she  played 
had  a  trick  of  recalling  to  him  a  chapter  from  Isaiah  or 
the  Book  of  Job.  At  other  times  he  disapproved  of  her 
music.  That  was  the  nearest  point  he  could  reach  to 
the  lyrics  of  this  star-gazing  rhapsodist. 

To  Peter,  also,  Bellew  was  very  decidedly,  no  scaly 
varmint,  but  a  big  man,  a  much  paragraphed  publicist. 
Never  would  the  little  man  have  dreamt  of  sharing  in 
such  distinguished  company.  Nor,  indeed,  had  he  truly 
shared,  for  Bellew  was  barely  awake  to  his  existence. 

"Yes,"  said  he  tentatively,  "it's  like  Dante  and 
Beatrice,  I  suppose,  but — "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 


246  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

about  his  ears — "there's  something  deathlike  about  it, 
too.  It's  big — and  draughty." 

"'The  windy  ways  of  death,'"  quoted  Knyvett 
softly.  "Yes,  it's  like  that.  That's  why  I  am  going 
back  to  my  work.  I  can  do  nothing  for  her,  I  who 
would  coin  my  heart's  blood  into  drachmas  for  her.  I 
have  gone  through  it  all  and  come  out  on  the  other 
side.  I  must  go  away — not  to  forget,  but  to  remember 
what  she  was,  what  she  might  have  been  to  the  world, 
what  she  still  is  to  me. ' ' 

There  was  in  his  tone  a  vast  regret  that  made  Peter 
stand  more  at  gaze  than  at  anything  which  had  gone 
before.  He  was  coming  now  to  the  heart  of  things. 

"An  unfulfilled  life.  No,  not  mine,  hers.  And  that's 
the  worst  of  all  to  bear.  I'm  no  poet  like  a  Senhouse, 
who  can  find  comfort  in  the  reflection  that  his  lady  is 
above  all  the  powers  of  hell.  That  isn't  so  in  Sara's 
case.  His  Sanchia  was  different.  She  was  a  goddess 
with  a  gift  for  mathematics.  She  found  opportunity 
for  both  playing  the  divine  and  adding  up  sums.  She 
had  ledgers  and  men  to  handle.  But  Sara  has  neither. 
She  is  injuring  her  man  by  standing  in  his  light,  the 
light  that  comes  from  love.  She  is  only  driving  him 
to  the  pursuit  of  a  phantom  lust.  And  she  has  no 
ledgers.  She  ought  to  have  drunk  deep  at  the  fountain 
of  experience,  to  have  known  all,  so  that  she  could 
speak  it  in  her  music.  Instead,  she  is  starving,  strained 
on  a  leash." 

"Then  tell  her.  Make  her  see,"  cried  Peter,  fling- 
ing the  weighty  Tables  of  the  Law  with  a  split  across 
their  middle  right  in  the  path,  "it  must  be  hell  to  feel 
like  that." 

"It  is." 

' '  And  her  ruin,  it  would  seem. ' ' 

"Don't  you  understand,"  cried  Billy  impatiently, 
"that  she's  above  me.  We  men  have  played  the  potter 
with  the  pot  too  long  in  women's  lives.  We  have 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      247 

wanted  to  cut  them  all  to  our  idea.  Now  we  must 
leave  them  alone.  We  cannot  be  their  salvation,  we 
can  only  damn,  not  save. ' ' 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Peter  hardily.  " Don't  you  see 
that  she  might  rise  to  what  you  say  is  in  her,  if  it 
weren't  for  your  infernal  squeamishness  about  dirtying 
your  little  finger?  Isn't  her  fulfilment  more  to  you 
than  your  own  noble-mindedness?  Damn  such  puling, 
whining  morality,  that  I  should  say  so.  A  goddess, 
say  you!  But  what's  the  good  of  that  to  her,  if  she 
doesn't  know  it?  A  damned  sight  better  make  her  a 
woman.  Billy,  'tis  you,  not  Bellew,  who's  the  egotist. 
You're  like  the  prude,  too  holy  to  risk  her  precious 
purity  by  contact  with  the  fallen. ' ' 

"Am  I  God,  then,  Peter,  that  I  should  decide  the 
issues  of  life  for  this  woman  ? ' ' 

"Are  you,"  parried  Westlake,  "by  any  chance  just 
juggling  with  yourself?  Are  you  afraid  of  social  dam- 
nation— for  her,  of  course?  Do  cuts  and  slights  and 
lifted  eyebrows  and  significant  silences  worry  you  at 
all,  for  her  ?  Are  you,  in  fact,  afraid  to  face  the  music  ? 
Do  you  care?" 

Billy  laughed.  "Not  a  straw,"  said  he  gaily.  "And 
if  I  did,  the  gossip  that  follows  Bellew  is  worse  than 
anything.  But  do  you  reckon  that  the  flying  skirts  of 
a  winged  Victory  can  be  damaged  by  the  spittle  of  a 
snail?  Lord!  Peter,  she'd  be  above  all  that.  The 
people  who  can  do  things  are,  you  know.  The  man 
or  woman  who  can  create,  can  interpret,  doesn't  care 
a  tinker's  cuss  whether  he  gets  At  Home  cards." 

So  the  talk  closed  on  a  lower  level,  but  Billy  was  as 
determined  as  ever.  Sara's  right  to  her  own  life  was 
as  inviolable  as  the  sanctity  of  her  body  would  have 
been  to  knight  of  old.  The  demands  change,  but  the 
spirit  remains. 

With  the  crossing  of  the  Line,  when  Knyvett  began 
to  utilise  Simon  Bodinar's  knowledge  of  these  South 


248  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

American  waters,  the  seaman's  pride  was  reborn.  He 
walked  with  a  new  light  in  his  eyes;  rejoiced  in  the 
spring  of  the  vessel  beneath  his  hand  when  he  took  his 
trick  at  the  wheel.  The  crew  mocked  his  attitude  behind 
his  back. 

Yet  the  plan  he  sketched  was  good;  it  was  to  strike 
for  Fernando  de  Noronha  and  falling  in  with  the  local 
monsoons,  if  luck  served,  run  down  the  Brazil  coast 
with  the  northeast  or  north  wind.  Then,  crossing  the 
mouth  of  the  Plata  inside  of  soundings,  make  the  land 
along  the  Patagonian  shores  to  the  region  of  the  Cape 
Horn  drift.  Five  times  he  had  sailed  southward  by 
this  route  and  Knyvett  never  regretted  taking  his  ad- 
vice. That  was  something  to  remember  in  the  days  that 
were  to  come. 

Before  the  nor 'east  trades  they  drifted  to  the  tropics 
under  a  haze  as  thick  as  November  in  northern  lati- 
tudes; they  grew  to  hate  the  smell  of  pitchy  seams,  the 
aimless  breaths  that,  when  the  trades  fail,  nutter  over 
the  calm  of  a  sea  of  glass  disturbed  by  naught  but 
the  flying  fish  and  the  bonita.  At  night  the  gates  of 
the  west  were  brazen,  till  somewhere  about  latitude  7° 
south,  they  first  sighted  the  dark  patches  of  the  Magellan 
clouds.  Day  after  day  the  eyes  scanned  the  sea-line 
for  the  fleecy  trade  clouds. 

One  night  Cole  rapped  at  Westlake's  door  and  called 
him  up;  it  was  dock-calm,  no  ripple,  no  cat's-paw,  only 
an  oily  swell  across  which  the  vessel  cast  a  black  shadow 
along  the  edge  of  which  played  the  silver  foam  of 
phosphorescence.  Then  they  saw  the  strange  sight 
noted  not  once  nor  twice  by  Spanish  and  Portuguese 
navigators — the  ringed  moon,  its  broad  gold  face  en- 
circled with  a  red  haze,  its  redness  paling  to  the  dark 
green  of  the  night  sky.  Over  the  bulwarks  the  men 
gazed ;  then  came  a  redness  in  the  east,  while  the  moon 's 
ring  began  to  fade  to  dull  pewter,  to  recede  it  seemed 
into  distance  as  the  daylight  conquered.  The  silvered 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      249 

tracks  faded  to  sea-dimness  as  the  sun  rose.  It  was  a 
vaster  world  than  they  had  known  before,  this  world 
where  the  constellations  played  their  age-long  game. 

Then  three  bells  sounded  and  the  cry  of  the  watch. 
They  were  cradled  in  a  big  hand,  these  men  who  watched 
or  slept.  Human  calculations  of  space  and  time 
shrivelled  to  nothingness  before  the  contemplation  of 
the  celestial  clock-work.  Across  these  waters  the  older 
navigators  stole  half  furtively,  offering  here  an  anchor 
and  there  a  prayer  to  the  Star  of  the  Sea,  and  flinging 
overboard  at  times  a  balk  of  timber  to  the  appeasement 
of  the  tides.  So  they  crept  between  the  domed  vault 
and  the  shifting  sea-floor.  One  must  not  tempt  a  mood 
of  anger  from  powers  so  great  as  these. 

Two  days  after  the  ringed  moon  it  came — the  mood  of 
rage  that  gathers  in  the  inky  thunder-clouds.  For 
hours  the  barometer  had  played  queer  tricks,  till  at 
last  it  provoked  a  whistle  from  the  skipper  who  called 
Bodinar  quickly;  neither  had  ever  seen  it  lower.  Then 
Mrs.  Bodinar  learnt  what  "dead-lights"  mean  on  the 
portholes;  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  stowed  save  the 
foretopsail  they  waited.  And  the  blackness  gathered 
over  the  noonday  stillness,  with  ugly  flaws  of  wind  like 
smiles  on  the  face  of  an  idiot.  Each  man  to  the  other 
was  by  now  but  a  dim  shape.  The  nerves  shrieked  for 
a  break  to  the  stillness,  but  Mrs.  Bodinar  in  the  galley 
boxed  the  ears  of  the  nigger  when  he  dropped  a  pile  of 
plates.  Then  she  cried,  in  both  instances  doing  just 
what  every  man  wanted  to  do. 

Peter  refused  to  go  below;  so  lashed  in  the  waist  he 
waited.  Two  days  before  they  had  spoken  an  English 
vessel,  twenty-one  days  out  from  Rio.  That  was,  he 
supposed,  perhaps  the  last  English  voice  they  would 
hear.  An  extraordinary  loneliness  had  come  upon  him, 
with  a  sinking  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach  and  an  alertness 
to  note  both  sight  and  sound  like  that  of  the  savage.  All 
the  higher  centres  of  thought  seemed  dead. 


250  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Inky-black  with  a  sulphur  edge  to  them  the  clouds 
assumed  weird  bird-shapes.  Peter  began  to  read  them 
as  he  might  have  read  the  shapes  in  a  fire.  Then  he 
loathed  them,  tried  to  escape  seeing  them,  but  failed. 

"Sou 'west,  half  south,"  said  a  voice. 

"Sou 'west,  half  south,"  came  the  answer  from  Bodi- 
nar  at  the  wheel.  The  man  was  on  his  mettle;  he  had 
no  fear  here.  Yet  there  had  been  a  row  with  him  only 
last  night.  He  had  charged  Cole  with  stealing  a  sov- 
ereign from  his  sea-chest,  then  he  had  finished  by  being 
beastly  sick. 

The  watch  was  turned  now  to  figures  cut  in  ebony 
against  the  first  flow  of  molten  sheet  lightning. 

"It's  coming,"  cried  Billy;  "hold  on,  Peter." 

Just  for  a  moment  Westlake  found  time  to  wonder 
what  it  felt  like  to  wait  for  a  hurricane  with  your  own 
ship  under  you.  Rum  feeling,  surely? 

Then  the  heavens  opened  and  it  seemed  that  the  sea 
was  gone;  something  was  shaking  him,  Peter,  beating 
the  wind  out  of  him  as  maliciously  as  a  terrier  teases 
a  rat.  He  hated  it,  wanted  to  hit  back.  Then  the  sea 
made  a  clean  breach  of  the  vessel  and  stove  Peter's 
chest  in.  He  felt  it  go;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  discov- 
ered afterwards  that  it  was  the  weather-side  of  the  gal- 
ley that  had  gone.  There  came  a  cry  from  the  dark- 
ness to  the  men  holding  by  the  life-lines  in  the  waist 
and  Peter  heard  their  oilskins  slither  in  the  extraor- 
dinary sense  of  hearing  that  was  his  between  blind  deaf- 
ness and  insensibility. 

The  mercury  must  by  now  be  going  down,  down  to 
Davy  Jones's  locker.  Where  they  were  all  going,  in 
fact.  How  would  Anne  take  it?  Would  she  marry 
someone  else?  She  ought  not,  for  he  had  waited  so 
long  for  her;  sick  of  self-pity,  his  heart,  which  for  all 
practical  purposes  was  located  in  his  stomach,  yearned 
over  himself. 

The  next  moment  the  deck  was  standing  upright  and 


ARGONAUTS  OF  A  PHANTOM  FLEECE      251 

he  clinging  to  it  by  toe  and  nail  like  a  big  land-crab. 
There  must  surely  be  a  crevice  in  it  that  would  give 
a  foothold ;  it  stank  of  oozing  pitch.  Then  came  a  huge 
crack,  amidships  it  seemed,  and  the  shuddering  sense 
of  an  endless  fall,  with  the  shriek  and  howl  of  caged 
winds  overhead.  He  had  an  instant's  glimpse  of  black 
depths,  and  then,  quiet.  Quiet !  he  had  always  heard  of 
the  silence  at  the  sea-bed. 

He  was  clutched  by  an  arm  round  his  body  and  found 
his  lips  against  a  dripping  cheek.  Blood  on  it,  too,  he 
could  tell  by  the  taste.  Then  the  man  stepped  across 
him  on  all  fours  and  he  thought  nothing  more  of  him. 

Hours  after  a  wave  curled  across  a  bulwark.  Peter 
lay  and  sobbed,  for  the  crest  of  it  was  white  and  the 
trough  of  it  green;  the  light  was  coming  back.  It  was 
the  darkness  he  had  dreaded  most,  but  now  the  blessed 
light  was  coming,  he  could  even  begin  to  feel  it  on  his 
eyelids.  Then  he  saw  Billy  at  the  helm  relieving  Bodi- 
nar  for  a  spell  and  steering  so  that  the  waves  struck 
dead  aft.  They  were  all  death-cold  from  the  water  that 
had  gone  over  them  and  Lethbridge  with  a  broken  arm. 
Peter  could  not  tell  how  he  knew  it,  but  he  did. 

Battened  down  below,  Mrs.  Bodinar  listened  to  Cor- 
nelius moaning  and  retching.  She  wanted  to  get  at 
him  to  kick  him,  but  the  fact  that  the  place  was  knee- 
deep  in  slop-water  seemed  to  deter  her,  for  she  could 
not  move  to  lay  her  hand  on  a  floor-cloth.  Then  her 
thoughts  flew  to  her  husband;  how  dared  he  leave  her 
down  here  to  die  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  ?  Still,  she  would 
let  no  shriek  escape  her,  lest  the  darky  hear.  A  filthy 
black  tool.  He  should  know  her  a  white  woman,  any- 
way, to  the  last. 

But  Bodinar 's  bones  would  fly  off  God  knows  where 
into  the  ocean-bed,  and  she  would  be  alone  shut  in  here. 
She  kicked  the  door  and  stormed.  Yet  that  was  all 
wrong,  for  she  would  surely  be  flying  in  the  air,  like  the 
queer  things  she  saw  when  the  fit  was  on  her?  Then 


252  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

she  knew  she  was  more  afraid  of  them  than  of  the 
crawling  beasts  down  below;  far  more  afraid.  And 
Bodinar,  where  would  he  be  that  read  bad  books  and 
drank  ?  Nor  would  she  have  taken  her  davy  that  he  was 
all  straight  with  women. 

At  that  moment  sense  failed  and  the  brain  reeled 
from  the  hammering  it  had  suffered.  She  was  vaguely 
now  repeating  sea-phrases  over  and  over  again:  "flog- 
ging the  clock;"  "a  damned  Shinnanikin, "  "a  damned 
Shinnanikin" —  At  last  it  was  quieter;  she  could  feel 
the  soreness  of  the  lips  she  had  been  wetting  with  her 
tongue,  could  make  out  the  straining  of  the  burdened 
masts,  the  creaking  of  the  blocks.  'Twas  like  the 
agony  of  giving  birth. 

That  woke  her,  for  they  might  live  after  all.  If  so, 
they  would  want  her  fire,  her  cooking.  She  paused  for 
each  slant  and  began  to  crawl  cannily  on  all  fours  to- 
wards the  bogie-stove. 

It  was  her  moment  of  triumph,  the  sweetest  in  her 
life,  when  she  handed  the  steaming  pannikins  of  coffee 
up  the  companion.  It  was  good  to  be  a  woman  as  she 
watched  the  numbed  red  hands  clutch  the  hot  stuff. 
With  a  sob  on  her  lips  she  turned  to  goad  Cornelius  to 
frenzy  by  her  taunts. 

So,  with  foretopsail  in  shreds,  with  broken  bulwarks 
and  salt  encrusted  deck,  the  gale  left  them.  And  forty- 
eight  hours  later  by  the  blessing  of  God  the  trade  clouds 
mustered  on  the  sea-line. 

Leaving  the  white  pinnacles  of  Fernando  de  Noronha 
on  the  port  bow,  they  struck  for  the  yellow  lines  of 
beach,  palm-fringed,  of  the  Brazil  coast  and  so  on  into 
the  vast  pear-shaped  harbour  of  Rio  glittering  white  in 
its  tracery  of  tropic  green — and  hiding  in  a  land  of 
eternal  spring  the  filthiest  sores  of  human  disease. 
There  were  no  letters;  only  the  eternal  "Como  no," 
the  "Why  not?"  of  South  America  began  to  ring  in 
Knyvett's  ears.  A  rage  possessed  him  to  come  to  grips 


with  something  tangible.  To  him  the  weather  change 
that  met  them  at  the  edge  of  the  Roaring  Forties  was 
a  real  joy. 

Now  at  dawn  the  decks  were  clammy  wet,  the  nights 
cold,  and  instead  of  albacore  and  flying  fish  they  met 
"the  Falkland  island  pilots," — the  penguins  flying  by 
in  dazzling  lines  of  light.  Then  came  southwesterly 
winds  bringing  with  them  miles  of  crested  waves  winged 
with  the  storm  they  fled  from. 

Behind  their  flying  spindrift  lay  the  shadow  of  the 
Horn. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DUKERIPPEN:    IN    THIS    MRS.    KNYVETT    PLAYS    THE    SIBYL, 
AND  STEPHEN  ANERLEY  THE  MAN 

IT  was  a  wonderful  day  of  stir  and  movement ;  snowy 
domes  and  pinnacles  of  cloud  showed  the  vast 
depths  of  the  blue  dome  and  the  tree-tops  swayed  be- 
neath a  southwest  wind.  The  better  to  see  and  hear, 
Archer  Bellew  threw  up  the  window  of  his  study.  With 
the  opening  of  it  came  the  sound  of  a  tarantelle  from 
the  low  granite  doorway  of  his  wife's  music-room. 

The  back  of  the  house  at  Craneham  still  retained  the 
quadrangular  shape  made  by  the  buildings  of  the  for- 
mer farm;  only  the  central  space  had  been  filled  with 
grass  and  the  barn  transformed.  It  was  dedicated  now, 
as  Uncle  Pip  used  to  say,  to  Orpheus,  not  the  Georgics. 
For  by  removing  the  flooring  which  had  made  the  place 
two-storeyed,  they  had  exposed  the  ancient  blackened 
timbers  of  the  barrel  roof  and  with  newly  plastered 
walls,  fresh  flooring  and  a  platform  at  the  far  end,  it 
wTas  found  to  possess  fine  acoustic  qualities.  Here  Sara 
had  placed  her  grand  piano  and  was  free  to  practise  at 
any  hour  without  disturbing  the  house. 

Bellew  returned  to  his  work,  for  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment undergoing  the  Chinese  torture  which  consists  in 
squeezing  a  body  into  a  basket  and  then  paring  off  the 
extruding  flesh.  In  less  cryptic  language  he  was  paring 
down  the  flesh  of  his  new  book  to  the  bones  of  it,  for 
he  was  a  creator  who  also  wanted  to  be  an  artist — after 
the  fashion  of  to-day,  which  consists  in  never  using  two 
lines  where  one  will  do.  The  thing  that  stood  in  his 
way  was  his  gift  of  national  consciousness;  he  was  con- 

254 


DUKER1FFEN  255 

stautly  caught  in  the  eddies  and  whirled  in  the  tides  of 
popular  instinct.  Hence,  he  often  lost  sight  of  the 
rounded  totality  of  the  individuals  he  visualised.  Would 
he  paint  a  city  clerk,  there  came  to  him  instead,  the 
rows  of  suburban  streets,  the  aura  of  clerkdom.  Be- 
tween the  historian  and  novelist,  his  work  was  that  of 
neither.  He  knew  it  and  suffered  in  his  artistic  con- 
science ;  he  felt  like  a  domestic  Muse  with  her  hair  wind- 
blown, Maenad-like.  Hence  his  pencil  whistled  across 
the  paper  in  savage  lines  of  erasure. 

He  envied  the  doers,  people  with  something  tangible 
to  their  credit.  Even  the  plump  white  hands  of  his 
banker  appealed  to  him,  his  transactions  were  so  neat. 
If  only  someone  would  just  give  him  a  stone  to  hew  in 
the  foundations  of  the  temple  of  England's  righteous- 
ness !  Yet  he  had  a  letter  from  Molly  Woodruffe  in  his 
pocket. 

At  last  he  saw  Anne  Hereford  cross  the  garden-plat 
and  threw  down  his  pencil-stump  with  a  sudden  admi- 
ration-for  these  sisters  who  refused  to  be  stifled  by 
the  provincial  feather-bed.  Had  things  been  otherwise, 
would  Sara,  he  wondered,  have  merged  the  artist  in  the 
mother?  At  any  rate,  he  had  nothing  to  regret  there. 
Supremely  pleased  with  himself,  he  felt  his  pulses  begin 
to  sway  to  the  music  that  had  now  changed  to  a  dance 
metre.  Obeying  a  sudden  impulse  he  followed  Anne's 
white-clad  figure  into  the  cool  gloom  of  the  music-room, 
caught  her  round  the  waist  with  a  laugh  and  began  to 
dance. 

Laughing,  swinging  to  her  music,  in  the  glimmer  of 
the  candles  on  her  piano,  Sara  played  on.  The  scent 
of  beans,  of  honeysuckle  and  tall  \vhite  lilies  came  with 
the  wind  that  swayed  the  candle-flame  in  streams  of  yel- 
low light  towards  her.  And  all  the  while  Archer  en- 
joyed the  gaiety  of  the  moment;  why  by  now  he  might 
have  been  a  heavy  paterfamilias  and  Sara  have  boasted 
a  double  chin.  This  lightness  of  heart  engendered  a 


256  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

certain  looseness  of  fibre;  he  ended  by  pelting  Anne 
with  yellow  plums  and  going  out  to  look  for  Molly  Wood- 
ruffe,  who,  with  a  "dear  Mr.  Bellew"  had  announced 
her  return  to  Dartmouth  for  a  ten  days'  holiday.  She 
had  been  ill,  wanted  a  rest  and  so  ended  "with  kindest 
remembrances. ' ' 

Left  alone,  Sara  bent  to  her  work,  hot  on  the  master- 
ing of  difficulties.  She  played  on,  stopped  to  analyse, 
to  repeat,  rejoicing  in  her  own  powers.  The  darkness 
gathered  outside,  till  circling  jackdaws  were  replaced 
by  wheeling  bats,  but  she  took  no  notice,  now  that  the 
work  was  going.  For  the  artist  has  to  plough  the  fur- 
row wearily  just  to  train  his  Pegasus  for  the  winged 
moment  that  comes  but  now  and  then. 

She  had  hurried  across  the  dew-wet  garden  to  her 
work  at  six,  then  had  followed  the  day's  routine  till 
now.  At  length,  tired  out,  she  threw  herself  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  chintz-covered  couch  and  fell  at  once  asleep. 
When  she  awoke  the  place  was  in  darkness,  for  the  can- 
dles had  guttered  to  their  sockets.  She  started  to  her 
feet  in  dismay ;  for  all  these  hours  her  father  must  have 
been  alone,  since  Elizabeth  was  ill  and  Anne  probably 
shut  in  upstairs,  at  work  on  her  M.D.  reading. 

Over  the  fire  in  the  dining-room,  now  a  mass  of  ashes, 
crouched  her  father,  his  foot  beating  an  angry  tattoo. 
The  room  was  scattered  with  specimens  and  on  the  mid- 
dle of  the  table  stood  a  plate  writh  a  large  piece  of  bread 
on  it.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  bell. 

"It's  useless  ringing,"  snapped  he.  "If  the  mistress 
neglects  her  work,  the  maids  follow  suit.  I  rang  an 
hour  ago,  but  no  one  answered." 

"I'm  sorry,  father." 

"I've  long  known,  Sara,  that  I'm  nothing.  But  this 
sort  of  thing  brings  it  home  to  me.  I've  caught  a  seri- 
ous chill.  But  no  one  minds  that,  of  course." 

Hugging  the  fire,  he  turned  to  her  the  dull  vacuity 
of  his  back.  She  flung  a  shawl  over  it,  which  he 


DUKERIPPEN  257 

shrugged  away  with  the  wriggle  of  a  naughty  child.  A 
frightened  maid  appeared  and  presently  the  room  began 
to  assume  a  more  habitable  appearance.  Sara's  heart 
fell,  as  she  turned  up  the  lights  and  noticed  among  the 
papers  a  long  envelope  addressed  to  a  firm  of  curio- 
dealers — evidently  an  order.  Then  arrived  the  coffee. 

"Now,  father,"  said  Sara,  pouring  out  the  hot  stuff. 

"And  after  all  these  years,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  don't 
know  that  coffee  gives  me  heartburn !  It  is  rank  poison 
to  me.  This  sort  of  thing  it  is  that  proves  to  me  how 
neglected  I  am." 

His  nose  worked  furiously. 

"I  thought  that  as  you  were  so  cold — " 

"And  whose  fault  is  it,  if  I  am  cold?" 

"Come,  father.  Risk  it  to-night.  I  don't  want  you 
to  catch  a  cold." 

"The  chill  is  upon  me,  Sara.  It  is  too  late  for  your 
repentance  now." 

But  the  flavour  worked  in  his  nostrils;  he  supped 
eagerly  and  noisily,  bending  his  nose  over  the  bowl  and 
warming  his  hands  on  it.  The  homely  gestures,  the 
noise  he  made,  moved  her  to  weariness  as  did  his  snores 
in  the  long  evenings.  She  was  impatient  to  see  her  life 
waste  like  this.  The  night  cometh  when  no  man  can 
work  and  here  she  had  to  wait,  tied  hand  and  foot,  to 
watch  the  slow  wasting  of  the  candle.  Dark  things 
moved  in  her,  thoughts  that  no  one  expresses  in  words. 

Solemnly  he  placed  the  plate  of  bread  before  her. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  cried;  "it  is  not  fit  for  human 
food.  It  is  sour!  Taste  it.  The  fermentation  which 
that  bread  will  engender  in  the  human  frame  is — is — 
explosive.  And  that  is  the  bread  wrhich  this  family  has 
been  feeding  on  for  weeks  and  months !  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  go  round,  or  I  would  order  in  samples  of 
every  kind  of  loaf  in  the  neighbourhood  and  if  neces- 
sary get  bread  from  town.  But  there  is  no  one  to  at- 
tend to  anything  in  this  house." 


258  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Much  refreshed,  he  shuffled  across  the  room  to  the 
bookshelves  and  reaching  down  a  Bible,  turned  up  the 
Psalmist's  praise  of  the  virtuous  woman.  Mouthing  the 
syllables  he  read  it  aloud,  while  the  cat  played  with  the 
tassels  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  finally  closing  the  book 
with  a  bang  said  solemnly: 

"Let  this  be  the  ideal.  Not  sour  bread,  neglectful 
servants  and  hours  of  loneliness  for  an  old  man.  But  I 
say  nothing." 

Sara  sat  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand.  She  was 
back  in  the  past  when  she  had  fought  death  on  his  be- 
half. The  very  feel  of  her  head  as  she  bent  wearily 
over  the  food-warmer  came  back,  the  racked  nerves,  the 
sinking  heart  at  the  thought  of  his  death.  She  remem- 
bered her  long  grateful  sleep  when  the  turn  came. 

But  now,  she  wanted  to  be  free.  Yet  if  he  were  gone, 
she  would  only  long  to  bring  him  back.  So  poised  be- 
tween crime  and  devotion  she  listened  to  his  meander- 
ing. 

"Must  this  go  to-night?"  she  said,  holding  up  the 
long  envelope  she  had  noted. 

"And  now  I  am  not  even  to  get  my  letters  posted!" 
he  exclaimed.  "But  I  will  go  out  myself." 

He  bundled  his  grey  skirts  round  him  and  prepared 
to  face  the  night  as  a  man  plunges  from  a  diving-board. 
He  had  a  dread  now  of  trusting  the  commonest  task  to 
anyone;  forty  times  a  day  he  would  ask  if  a  letter  had 
been  posted.  Then  he  caught  Sara's  eye. 

"It  is  an  order,"  he  said  defiantly. 

"Then,"  she  answered  with  a  flash  of  fury,  "the 
things  cannot  be  paid  for.  Please  understand  that." 

"You  can  always  get  money  from  Archer.  One  of 
our  biggest  names — " 

"Understand,  once  and  for  all,  that  I  will  not  ask 
money  from  Archer." 

Again  she  saw  the  miserable  old  figure  crouching 
over  the  letter,  afraid  even  to  trust  it  to  anyone  to  post, 


DUKERIPPEN  259 

longing  for  a  few  baubles  denied — and  for  such  sordid 
reasons.  She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  envelope. 

"All  right,  father,"  she  said;  "give  it  to  me  to  post 
and  I  will  find  the  money  somehow." 

Meanwhile  out  of  doors  Belle w  had  caught  sight  of 
a  white  figure  making  its  way  up  the  hill  out  of  the 
town.  He  followed  it  till,  under  the  last  gas  lamp  that 
flickers  yellow  on  dark  green  leafage,  he  saw  that  it 
was  Molly.  Beyond  was  the  open  country,  bleached  now 
to  its  very  bones,  with  its  cornfields  lying  grey  in  tawny 
stubble.  Molly  walked  on,  great  grass-hat  on  the  back 
of  her  head,  little  thumb  cocked  up  against  the  tall  stick 
she  carried.  At  the  first  stile  she  leant,  till  at  last  a 
field-mouse  flitted  by  on  its  unseen  wires  of  legs.  The 
girl  turned  and  saw  Bellew.  He  stood  bareheaded  for 
a  second  and  she  thought  how  much  greyer  he  had  gone. 
For  all  these  months  they  had  not  met. 

Now  she  laughed  as  he  caught  her  right  hand  in  his 
left  and  drew  her  up  to  him.  He  watched  the  blush 
rise,  well  content.  Then  dropped  her  hand  and  laughed 
in  his  turn. 

"So  you  wanted  me,"  he  said.  "Forgiven?  Am  I 
not?" 

"Um,  yes,"  she  said,  dropping  eyelids,  but  amazed  at 
his  confident  tone.  She  had  written  that  letter  in  dis- 
tant terms  of  friendship  and  yet  he  met  her  like  this. 
But  it  was  always  so ;  she  in  heroics  at  absence,  and  he, 
ready  for  the  day's  pleasure  when  they  met.  Tremu- 
lous, yet  angry,  she  walked  by  his  side. 

"Wasn't  I  wise?"  asked  he.  "Could  we  have  met — 
so  radiantly — you  and  I,  had  I  not  been  wise?" 

Bitterly  she  thought  of  her  summer,  of  her  sense  of 
her  own  lightness,  her  lonely  ache,  her  disgust  at  the 
dulness  of  her  work,  and  of  her  own  inability  to  keep 
her  mind  on  the  simplest  task.  Anger  was  rising  iu 
her  like  the  night  wind  whose  moan  means  a  gale  before 
morning. 


260  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"And  the  great  Stephen?     How  is  he?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"I  don't  think,  Mr.  Bellew,  that  I'll  go  any  further," 
she  exclaimed  pettishly. 

"Why,  Molly,  we  haven't  met  for  ages!  And  look! 
Surely  you  don't  want  to  go  in  yet?" 

He  pointed  to  the  pale  fields,  to  the  shadowy  wood- 
lands under  the  pearly  sky.  The  night-moths  began  to 
thrill  and  at  the  sound,  he  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall. 
Putting  an  arm  round  her,  he  drew  her  nearer  to  the 
shadow  of  the  trees. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  cried.  All  the  past  and  the  pres- 
ent seemed  rolled  together  in  a  great  globe  to  confound 
her.  "Let  me  go  back." 

"Likely,  isn't  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment.  He  was  trying  to 
awaken  the  sweetness  of  the  past  with  touches,  with  pas- 
sionate words.  But  she  grew  colder  and  he  knew  it. 
Lying,  eyes  wide  opened,  against  his  shoulder,  she 
watched  the  swaying  of  the  trees.  The  wood  murmurs, 
while  they  thrilled  his  blood,  cooled  hers.  The  hour 
fought  for  the  man,  but  something  more  powerful  than 
hour  or  man  was  within  her. 

"Don't.  I  hate  it,"  she  said  at  last.  He  let  her  go 
and  began  to  argue,  but  she  scarcely  heard  him.  She 
had  called  him  back  and  she  was  glad  she  had,  for  now 
she  had  fathomed  herself  at  last.  But  he  misunderstood 
and  in  a  torrent  of  words  offered  her  flight.  With 
fingers  interlaced  and  head  bent  she  walked  down  the 
field.  When  he  had  done,  she  wondered  why  so  many 
myriads  of  women  had  yielded  at  pleading  such  as  this. 

"And  those  things  you  dreaded  before?"  she  asked, 
"the  secrecy,  the  lies,  the  ugliness  of  the  hotels?" 

She  was  even  then  picturing  to  herself  the  stuffed  fox 
in  the  hall  of  some  old  country  inn,  the  ancient  mouldy 
furniture,  the  chambermaid,  farm-wench,  or  golden- 
curled  miax.  Just  the  things  that  a  few  months  ago 


DUKERIPPEN  261 

would  have  been  simply  stones  on  the  path  to  fairy- 
land. 

"You  don't  mind  them  now?"  she  persisted. 

"Molly,  dearest,  not  with  you.  Dsn't  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Only  too  well." 

"Don't  you  care  for  me  any  longer?" 

He  put  a  hand  on  her  breast  and  pressing  a  mo- 
mentary advantage,  "Love  me,"  said  he.  "Dearest,  'tis 
just  the  secrecy  that  will  make  it  sweeter." 

So  he  was  lost. 

"And  what  about  the  man  I  am  to  marry?" 

And  looking  up  at  him,  she  read  his  thoughts;  it 
would  be  safer  so,  with  Stephen  as  a  blind.  More  than 
that,  she  could  already  feel  the  parting  it  would  mean 
every  time,  her  own  sick  dread  and  misery,  the  man's 
light-hearted  good-bye.  And  shuddering  cried :  "  Never, 
I  never  will." 

She  saw  him  just  as  he  was;  willing  to  go  as  far  as 
was  necessary  for  his  own  gratification  and  calling  the 
excursion  by  all  sorts  of  fine  names.  She  probed  his 
eyes  with  her  look;  his  took  on  a  brutality  that  a  man 
may  well  assume,  once  exposed.  She  compared  him  with 
Anerley  and  found  herself  unworthy  of  an  honest  man. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  follow  her  when  she  turned 
resolutely  away,  but  plunged  into  the  wood  where  she 
could  hear  him  forcing  a  way  through  the  undergrowth. 
She  remembered  the  short  story  of  his  she  had  read  in  a 
review,  a  piece  of  cynicism  in  which  the  several  women 
who  had  loved  a  man  were  brought  together  into  a  room, 
there  to  tell  their  secret  history  to  each  other.  Molly 
understood  the  humour  of  it  now. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  town  she  hesitated,  feeling  it 
impossible  to  go  back  to-night  to  her  mother's  house. 
For  self-reproach  fought  now  in  her  with  longing  for 
the  thing  she  had  refused. 

Soon  after,  sitting  alone  in  her  great  drawing-room 


262  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

on  the  temporarily  rented  cliff  house  which  was  always 
filled  with  the  sea  murmur,  Mrs.  Knyvett  heard  the 
knocker  on  her  front  door  gently  lift  and  fall.  Instinct 
told  her  to  answer  the  summons  herself. 

She  was  a  ready  woman  and  made  no  outcry  as  she 
drew  the  girl  into  the  house.  With  dishevelled  hair 
and  skirts  bedraggled  from  the  dusty  roads,  Molly 
needed  but  a  few  faltered  sentences  to  tell  her  story. 
For  a  moment  Mrs.  Knyvett  stood  frowning,  lost  in 
thought.  Molly  misunderstood  her  attitude. 

"I'll  go,"  said  she,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath;  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  come." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Knyvett.  "I'm  only  thinking  how  we  can  cover  up 
your  tracks.  No,  you  shan't  go  back  to  your  mother. 
Better  not,  for  every  reason.  But  I'll  send  a  note  to 
say  I  'm  keeping  you. ' ' 

Half  an  hour  later,  warmed  and  fed,  Molly  told  it 
all  in  the  pleasant  upstair  sitting-room,  where  only  the 
sea  and  Mrs.  Knyvett 's  ears  could  hear  it.  Softly  for  a 
moment,  when  it  was  over,  she  laid  a  hand  on  the  girl's 
head  and  then  went  out  of  the  room. 

' '  Molly, ' '  she  said  when  she  came  back,  ' '  do  you  know 
what  I've  just  done?  I've  wired  to  Stephen  Anerley, 
telling  him  to  come  at  once. ' ' 

The  girl  got  up  and  Mrs.  Knyvett  watched  her  in- 
tently. 

"Did  I  do  wrong?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"I  don't  know.     I'm  not  fit." 

"No,  perhaps  not.  That's  for  him  to  judge.  But  he 
mustn't  be  played  with  any  longer." 

Molly  flushed  angrily,  for  this  hard  judicial  tone  was 
the  worse  to  bear,  following  as  it  did  on  sympathy  and 
pity. 

"Good  night,  little  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  rising 
and  striking  a  match  for  the  candles.  There  was  a  half 
smile  hovering  round  the  corner  of  her  lips  that  car- 


DUKERIPPEN  265? 

ried  Molly  in  stately  fashion  out  of  the  room  and  into 
the  one  that  had  been  assigned  to  her.  There  she  flung 
herself  down  and  abandoned  herself  to  a  wild  fit  of  sob- 
bing. 

At  midnight,  when  she  still  lay  awake,  shaken  every 
now  and  then  by  a  long  hard  shiver,  she  heard  a  soft 
knock  at  her  door  as  her  hostess  entered,  shading  a  can- 
dle with  her  hand. 

"Ah,  I  thought  so,"  she  exclaimed,  as  Molly  turned 
her  face  away.  And  the  mother-fire  alight  within  her 
big,  masterful  body,  she  lay  down  and  drew  the  girl 
into  her  arms,  warming  the  cold  frame  against  hers  and 
stilling  the  aching  sobs  against  her  breast. 

"Little  girl,"  said  she,  "didn't  I  lay  out  a  beautiful 
nighty  for  you?" 

It  was  a  billowy  garment  of  softest  white  silk,  laven- 
der-scented, like  the  beautiful  white  room  in  which  she 
lay.  Molly  felt  homey  and  suddenly  yielded  herself 
to  the  comfort  beside  her.  In  the  darkness  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett  smiled  and  then  began  to  talk  as  no  one  on  earth 
had  ever  heard  her  talk  before.  When  Molly  thought 
of  a  night  that  might  have  been  and  shivered,  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett  drew  her  closer  still,  for  now  she  understood  every 
flutter  of  this  storm-bird's  heart.  The  nightdress,  with 
its  soft  beauty,  was  intended  to  minister  to  the  self-re- 
spect she  wanted  to  bring  back  to  the  girl. 

She  began  by  taking  her  listener  straight  away  into 
the  core  of  her  own  life.  She  spoke  of  her  ambitions 
for  her  son,  of  how  every  step  of  the  way  had  been 
planned  out.  Concealing  nothing,  she  told  of  her  mis- 
ery at  seeing  this  waste  of  his  best  years,  of  her  desire 
to  see  it  ended.  Nor  did  she  leave  any  doubt  of  the  end 
for  which  she  still  hoped. 

"But  she's  married,"  cried  Molly,  knowing  no  differ- 
ence between  the  legal  and  the  moral  bond. 

"Pouf!  Not  to  Archer  Bellew!  Not  in  any  real 
sense!"  cried  Mrs.  Knyvett.  And  Molly  wondered  the 


264  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

more,  for  this  was  a  new  world  to  her,  this,  where  every- 
one was  taught  to  pay  his  debts  back  to  the  uttermost 
farthing.  She  had  always  lived  in  the  market  place, 
where  one  gets  as  much  as  possible  for  as  little  an  outlay 
as  can  be  safely  accomplished.  But  here,  the  very  joy 
one  felt  was  a  gift  to  be  paid  back — to  the  race  that  had 
made  it  possible. 

Then  she  shrivelled,  appalled  at  herself. 

' '  What  you  must  think  of  me ! "  she  gasped. 

But  Mrs.  Knyvett  only  waded  deeper  into  the  stream, 
for  she  knew  her  world  well.  Molly  burnt,  as  her  words 
flowed  on,  for  you  would  have  sworn,  to  hear  her,  that 
Mrs.  Knyvett  had  the  ears  of  a  Delphic  oracle  whom 
nothing  escaped.  She  told  it  all,  calling  it  "the  philan- 
derings  of  Bellew";  this  woman  for  her  skin;  that  for 
her  wit  and  devilry;  t'other  for  the  goodness  of  her 
dinners. 

"Oh,  no!  he  never  went  over  the  border.  You,  my 
dear,  might  have  had  a  proud  position — the  only  one  he 
seduced.  'Twas  the  country  atmosphere,  of  course,  to- 
night— a  clownish,  bumpkin  habit — goes  with  cottages 
and  woods  and  cornfields,  you  know.  Archer  Bellew 's 
always  in  the  picture.  That's  it.  You  were  a  milk- 
maid and  he  the  bold  bad  squire.  Had  he  met  you  in 
a  dancing  room,  'twould  have  been  played  in  the  foot- 
lights instead;  in  a  studio,  all  attitudes;  on  a  platform, 
midnight  talks  a  la  Russe.  I  know  the  man.  His  rooms 
are  in  St.  James's;  or  the  Albany,  now,  I  believe.  And 
his  wife  making  both  ends  meet  at  home." 

Molly  shrank ;  wounded  pride  stung  and  rankled.  She 
shared  the  contempt,  for  Mrs.  Knyvett  used  the  probe, 
nor  spared. 

"He'd  have  forgotten  you  the  sooner.  That's  all. 
Also  part  of  the  routine  of  a  villeggiatura." 

Then,  changing  her  tone,  she  told,  without  a  name, 
the  story  Margaret  Rossiter  had  lived  down. 

"She'd  wish  me  to  tell  you.  I  know  that,"  said  Mrs. 


DUKEEIPPEN  265 

Knyvett.  ' '  To  save  him  from  doing  any  more  harm.  I 
never  hesitated  over  that  to-night.  I  know  I  am  break- 
ing no  confidence.  For  she — cared,  cares.  That  was 
love.  Not  giving  herself.  Oh,  no.  In  fact,  I  think  she 
loved  least  then.  She  learnt  it  afterwards.  And  if  you 
ask  me  what  love  is,  I  must  confess  I  don't  know.  I 
don't.  But  it's  God's  own  smile.  Margaret  Rossiter 
has  it.  And  Archer  Bellew  has  never  come  within  ten 
thousand  leagues  of  it,  though  he's  written  about  it  all 
his  life.  Oh,  it's  all  plain  now.  Scores  of  things  are. 
I  remember  her  going  suddenly  away  from  a  picture 
show  and  now,  years  later,  I  recall  that  Bellew  held  back 
a  curtain  at  that  moment.  And  how  often  I  must  have 
pained  her  with  my  tongue !  When  I  think  of  how  I  've 
laughed  at  their  menage,  his  and  Sara's,  at  his  goddesses. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  feel  scorched." 

Molly  had  joined  her  at  the  fire  -long  ago  and  lay 
ashamed. 

"What  does  your  love  look  like  beside  hers?  For 
she's  cared  all  these  years,"  asked  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

"I  never  loved  him." 

"No,  you  only  obeyed  an  instinct.  And  if  you'd  actu- 
ally given  in — well,  child,  there's  been  tons  of  sickly 
rubbish  talked  about  that.  Of  course,  you  could  have 
got  back.  That's  the  plain  truth.  But  you'd  have  had 
to  suffer  damnably.  And  then  again  you  might  not 
have  got  back.  It's  the  acted  lie  that's  the  worst  and 
if  lies  become  the  habit  of  the  soul — well,  I  can  hardly 
bear  to  think  what  that  soul  has  to  bear  to  get  used  to 
the  truth  again.  It's  like  pulling  the  scales  of  corrup- 
tion, like  so  many  skins  going  in  pain  and  agony.  And 
from  that  God  save  you!  Do  you  know  the  other  day 
I  sat  in  the  Queen's  Hall  listening  to  a  wonderful 
speaker  who  was  rolling  out  the  ages  like  a  scroll,  run- 
ning over  races  and  peoples  back  into  the  abyss  of  time. 
And  one  saw  the  puny  folks,  oneself  a  pin-point  among 
them,  slipping  down  into  darkness.  I  thought  of  my 


266  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

own  little  problems  and  of  Billy's.  What  did  it  mat- 
ter? Hindus,  Chaldeans,  Persians,  Celts,  Teutons — we 
were  all  just  slipping  over  and  away.  And  a  race 
scarcely  seemed  bigger  than  a  unit." 

She  suddenly  put  her  hand  on  the  girl's  bosom. 

"Little  matter  enough,  it  seems,  whose  son  lies  there, 
or  whether  any  son  at  all,"  she  said  softly,  and  the 
girl's  eyes  smarted  with  tears.  "And  little  matter 
enough  whether  that  son's  mother  be  a  pure  woman,  or 
rotten  through  and  through.  For  she's  just  a  solitary 
wheat  grain  in  a  field  of  millions  uncountable.  So 
much  pother  about  a  thing  so  small." 

The  girl  kept  quiet,  unable  to  speak ;  this  older  woman 
came  so  close,  with  such  truculent  reverence,  to  the 
heart's  core. 

"My  dear,"  said  she,  after  a  silence,  "to  reframe  an 
old  saying — if  there  were  no  God,  it  would  be  necessary, 
not  to  invent,  but  to  make  one.  I'm  not  always  sure  of 
the  shaping  hands  that  create  us  from  outside,  but  I'm 
always  sure  of  one  thing,  and  that's  the  God  in  germ 
within  each  pigmy  of  all  the  millions.  He  must  be  there, 
for  I  feel  Him  so  surely  in  myself,  in  everyone  I  've  ever 
met.  If  there  be  no  God,  then  we  are  making  one,  we, 
the  undistinguished  ones  who  fade  and  leave  no  visible 
trace,  we  that  make  up  the  races  that  pass  like  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud.  That's  why  you  matter,  you  and 
your  son  that  may  be." 

In  an  awe  too  deep  for  words,  they  lay  in  silence. 
But  Mrs.  Knyvett  knew  that  she  had  carried  the  child 
into  a  large  room.  She  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl 's  heart 
and  Molly  knew  why.  She  was  calling  to  the  deeps 
within. 

And  presently  the  younger  woman  fell  asleep,  while 
Mrs.  Knyvett  watched  the  dawn  whiten  on  the  blind. 
There  were  none  but  Greek  pictures  on  these  walls, 
stern  gods  of  the  loveliness  that  uplifts,  save  here  and 
there  a  Madonna  with  the  face  of  a  Demeter.  This  was 


DUKERIPPEN  2(17 

Mrs.  Knyvett's  room  for  girl  guests  and  several  whom 
Society  regarded  with  uplifted  eyebrows  had  slept  there. 
Many  worse,  in  fact,  than  storm-tossed  Molly  who  ate 
her  fruit  and  drank  her  tea  there  next  morning.  Under 
the  roses  on  the  tray  was  a  letter  in  her  mother 's  writing. 

"You  will  not  return  to  this  roof,"  it  ran,  as  though 
Molly  were  a  homing  pigeon,  "until  I  receive  a  full  ac- 
count of  why  you  failed  to  return  to  the  shelter  of  your 
home  last  night.  For  the  reputation  of  the  lady  whom 
you  have  chosen  as  chaperone  instead  of  the  mother 
whose  whole  life  has  been  devoted  to  your  interests  is 
scarcely  high  enough  to  cover  such  wild  escapades  as 
you  indulge  in.  Such  is  the  new  woman,  I  suppose. 
I  am  sending,  as  impertinently  requested  by  her,  a  por- 
tion of  your  wardrobe.  "When  you  wish  for  my  pro- 
tection, you  will  comply  with  my  conditions.  Until  then 
I  remain  your  sorrowful,  broken-hearted  mother, 

"FLORENCE  MARY  WOODRUFFS." 

Contemptuously  the  girl  tossed  it  aside,  calling  it 
naught,  yet  feeling  the  gall  of  it  all  day.  Below  in  the 
garden  she  found  her  hostess,  in  stout  gardening  gloves, 
tying  up  the  trailing  branches  of  clematis  and  wistaria 
that  rioted  in  all  the  flower  beds.  Both  felt  it  a  relief 
to  meet  with  the  scent  of  earth  in  the  air  and  the  filip 
of  the  wind  in  their  faces.  Night  and  morning  nerves 
are  two  different  things. 

Neither  mentioned  Stephen,  yet  both  felt  him  in  the 
air  like  a  vast  overshadowing.  Before  lunch  came  a 
wire;  he  would  be  with  Mrs.  Knyvett  that  evening. 
Some  hours  later  from  the  door  of  her  bedroom  Molly 
heard  a  ring  and  his  voice  in  the  hall.  Then  the  down- 
stair sitting-room  door  banged.  She  could  fancy  the 
two  sitting  there  in  a  grey  green  gloom  discussing  her 
fate.  Through  the  summer  overgrowth  of  the  creepers 
over  the  windows  one  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  sea. 


268  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Stephen  Anerley  sat  perfectly  quiet  while  Mrs.  Kny- 
vett  told  plainly  what  she  knew  of  last  night.  He 
seemed  unable  to  break  the  silence  even  when  she  had 
finished.  From  his  downcast  glance  she  could  tell  noth- 
ing. 

"Did  you  guess  why  I  sent  for  you?"  she  asked  point- 
blank  at  last. 

He  nodded,  then  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  her, 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

"How  much  of  this,"  he  asked  at  last,  turning 
sharply,  "did  she  wish  told  to  me?" 

"All  of  it,  Stephen,"  she  answered,  calling  him  by 
the  name  she  had  often  used  as  a  boy.  Instinctively  she 
wanted  to  soften  a  hard  core  in  him. 

' '  She  tells  you ;  you  tell  me ;  there  you  have  two  chan- 
nels of  possible  misunderstanding." 

"Perhaps  you  mean  misrepresentation?"  she  asked 
curtly,  her  temper  rising. 

He  lifted  an  admonitory  hand ;  she  could  have  slapped 
him,  remembering  certain  passages  in  his  youth  when, 
as  he  stood  between  his  father's  knees,  she  had  talked 
baby-talk  to  him.  Then  she  stopped  her  foolish  ir- 
relevance, for  she  loved  Molly  in  proportion  to  the  help 
she  had  been  able  to  bring  her.  And  Mrs.  Knyvett 
loathed  the  mendicant  whose  sores  she  could  not  heal. 

"Not  conscious,  of  course,  unconscious,"  he  agreed, 
in  the  tone  of  a  professor  who  defines  subjective  and  ob- 
jective. 

Mrs.  Knyvett  felt  that  a  bit  of  a  breeze  was  wanted 
here.  Then  she  was  sorry  for  him  since  plainly  he  suf- 
fered. 

"Stephen,"  said  she,  and  wondered  whimsically  how 
many  times  of  late  she  had  asked  this  question,  "do  you 
really  love  this  girl?" 

"Well  enough  to  wonder  whether  I  love  her  enough 
to  make  her  happy,"  he  answered. 


DUKER1PPEN  269 

"And  that's  the  first  sensible  thing  you've  said  to- 
day," she  cried. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked. 

"Upstairs,  trembling  at  the  sound  of  your  voice  in 
the  hall,"  said  she,  woman  all  over,  and  marched  to  the 
bell.  He  thought  it  was  to  send  a  maid  for  Molly,  but 
drew  breath  of  relief  when  she  merely  said,  "Whisky 
and  soda." 

They  waited  till  the  servant  had  come  and  gone. 

"You're  an  honest  woman,  Mrs.  Knyvett,"  began  he, 
when  the  whisky  had  put  some  mettle  into  him. 

"Call  no  woman  honest  till  she's  been  tempted,"  re- 
turned she,  amazed  at  the  pluck  of  the  young  cockerel. 

But  he  persisted,  not  to  be  turned  aside. 

"I  ask  you,"  said  he,  "as  an  honest  woman  whether 
you  think  we've  a  chance  of  making  a  success  of  it,  she 
and  I.  Here  you  are  sending  to  tell  me — well,  that  she 
was  within  a  fraction  of  an  inch  of  bolting  with  an- 
other chap.  Now,  you  wouldn't  call  that  a  happy  pre- 
nuptial  omen,  would  you  ?  I  love  her,  it 's  true,  but  too 
much  not  to  shrink  from  making  her  miserable  for  my 
own — pleasure,  shall  we  call  it  ? "  he  finished  grimly. 

"Mrs.  Knyvett,"  he  began  again,  "I  want  her  to  be 
happy.  And  all  this  summer  she's  been  writing  letters 
— well,  never  mind — you  know.  Letters  a  man  cares 
for.  And  then  you  say  she  whistled  him  back — like 
that." 

Whining  out  into  silence,  his  voice  trailed  away  like  a 
chance-struck  violin  string. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "but  remember  her  home.  She 
was  so  wretched  there." 

"No,  that's  not  enough.  For,  once  married  to  me, 
she  will  often  have  dull  hours,  cannot  fail  to.  Heavy 
times  are  bound  to  come,  you  know.  Bound  to.  And 
every  time  it's  collar- work,  is  she  going  to  kick  over  the 
traces?  Won't  do,  you  know.  And  if  she  feels  like 


270  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

this  before  marriage,  what  the  deuce  will  it  be  after? 
No,  it  won't  do.  It's  no  go,  no  go." 

"Sit  down,  Stephen  Anerley,  and  listen  to  me,  for  I 
knew  the  world  before  you  were  breeched.  I'll  tell  you 
the  fact.  I  was  tempted  to — give  her  a  push  and  let 
the  thing  run.  With  Bellew,  I  mean.  I  had  my  own 
reasons.  It  would  have  been  a  way  out." 

Stephen's  eyes  flashed. 

"But  the  child  was  too  good  to  be  offered  up  even 
by  a  mother.  She  was  a  brave  little  fighter.  I  couldn't 
give  her  a  kick.  And  neither  can  you." 

"But  it's  for  life." 

"Of  course  it  is,  or  it  looks  so,  now.  But  it  doesn't 
do  to  say  'World  without  end,'  too  freely." 

"Mrs.  Knyvett,"  he  laughed,  "you  really  are  a  des- 
perate neck-or-nothing  woman." 

"I  am.  I  always  liked  a  diving-board  that  kicked 
you  off  before  you  had  time  to  realise  your  nakedness. 
Now,  Molly's  got  two  natures — like  most  women,  only 
we  know  less  about  women  than  about  any  other  of 
God's  creatures  because  we've  told  each  other  such  lies 
about  them.  With  one  hand  she  reaches  to  the  light, 
and  with  t'other  down.  Well,  for  practical  purposes 
and  unlikely  as  it  may  seem,  you're  the  light.  You 
can't  go  from  that.  If  you  love  her,  you  won't  fail 
her.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  Take  her  away,  put 
yourself  between  her  and  temptation." 

"You're  asking  me  a  big  thing." 

"I  am.     I'm  asking  you  to  be  a  big  man." 

"Or  a  fool." 

"Or  a  fool.  It's  very  seldom  you  can  tell  t'other 
from  which." 

"Let  me  see  her,"  he  cried.  "I  won't  be  sold,  nor 
buy  a  pig  in  a  poke." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  went  away  and  presently  Molly  opened 
the  door  and  closed  it  behind  her  softly.  She  would 
not  advance  a  step  to  him,  but  stood,  face  twitching  and 


DUKERIPPEN  271 

eyes  downcast,  her  fingers  pleated  together  in  front  of 
her. 

"Molly,"  he  cried,  "Molly,  oh,  how  could  you?" 

They  stood  like  chidden  children  side  by  side. 

"You  knew,  that  night,  how  it  was,"  she  said,  her 
bosom  heaving,  "you  knew  it.  But  you  went  on." 

"But  that  was  different.  I  won  you.  And  after- 
wards you  were  mine.  I  trusted  you." 

"I  know.  But  I'm  not  ...  in  one  piece.  And 
he  understood." 

"And  I  don't?" 

"Not  always.  For  you  put  me  right  and  I  want  to 
be  thought  adorable." 

She  smiled  and  he  wondered  how  she  dared. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  "he  didn't 
waste  any  self-respect  on  you.  Oh,  yes,  he  understood 
you  very  well.  And  I  didn't.  That's  all  there  is  to 
it." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  so  low  that  he  could  scarcely  hear. 
But  it  was  a  matter  she  could  not  discuss. 

"Oh,  why,  for  God's  sake,  couldn't  you  act  straight?" 
he  burst  out.  "I  loved  you,  hadn't  a  thought  that 
wasn't  yours,  was  looking  at  houses,  planning  for  next 
year." 

"Dearest!" 

"Don't  say  that.  Don't  dare  to.  For  I  don't  know 
but  what  you  'd  be  the  better  for  a  good  beating. ' ' 

He  turned  away.  Then  he  heard  a  click  on  the  polish 
of  the  table.  It  was  her  ring. 

"I've  tried  to  act  straight.  Another  woman  might 
have  deceived  you.  I  didn't  do  that.  But  I'll  not  be 
schooled  any  more.  You  treat  me  like  a  naughty  child. 
And  if  I've  done  wrong,  you  know  it.  I've  told  it.  I 
didn't  lie." 

"But  it's  what  it  shows — "  he  murmured. 

"And  that's  no  matter  to  you  now.  And  if  there's 
nothing  in  your  life  you  don't  want  me  to  know,  well, 


272  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

be  very  thankful.  It'll  save  you  from  this  wretched- 
ness. But  you're  a  hideous  Pharisee." 

Not  beyond  reach  of  her  darts,  he  stood  frowning. 
She  had  tried,  it  was  true.  Nor  was  he  one  who  could 
cast  a  stone,  for  he  had  not  even  tried,  had  gone  the 
easy  way  before  he  met  her. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"No,  no,  I  can't  let  you  go.     You  love  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  care  now.  But  I'll  not  be 
browbeaten  any  more.  If  you  can't  understand,  then 
you  can't.  But  if  you're  a  prig  you  needn't  try  to 
whitewash  everybody  you  come  near." 

Furious,  she  raged,  while  he  lifted  her  off  her  feet 
and  kissed  her  cheek,  exclaiming :  ' '  Forgive  me. ' '  And 
she,  nature  crying  within,  did  so. 

But  Mrs.  Knyvett  was  not  satisfied  by  this  redinte- 
gratio  amoris.  She  planned,  in  fact,  a  hand-book  for 
the  use  of  the  newly  wedded,  so  fast  in  those  days  did 
wisdom  bubble  from  the  springs  within. 

And  first  she  tackled  Master  Stephen:  "You've 
come,"  cried  she,  "across  one  snag  in  the  river.  Let  it 
be  a  warning  to  you  to  avoid  the  rest.  I  always  want 
to  act  the  devil's  part  and  take  everybody  up  at  least 
once  in  their  lives  to  see  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  in 
a  moment  of  time." 

"Yes,"  said  he  with  a  twinkle. 

"Yes,  says  he,"  she  mocked,  "and  I  might  be  talking 
Choctaw  for  all  his  understanding  of  it.  Don't  you 
make  the  mistake  of  shutting  up  your  wife  within  four 
walls,  young  man.  Take  her  up  every  now  and  then 
and  yourself,  too,  where  you  can  get  a  panoramic  view 
of  the  varsal  world.  Let  her  feel  the  globe  spin  beneath 
her  feet.  My  lad,  the  women  of  this  generation  can't 
be  cramped  into  a  kitchen  or  a  nursery— and  least  of 
all  into  one  of  those  front  rooms  in  the  second  story  of 
a  suburban  villa,  where  there's  a  double  bed  with  an 
eiderdown — and  bored  satiety  and  mental  vacuity  there- 


DUKERIPPEN  273 

with.  Let  her  go  out  and  live  and  feel  herself  part  of 
the  big  procession.  Don't  starve  her  in  brain.  Let  her 
speak;  she  can.  Go  and  hear  her.  And  be  thankful 
you've  got  a  mate,  not  a  plaything.  She's  got  brains 
at  least  as  good  as  yours  and  instincts  five  times  as 
strong.  You've  burnt  your  fingers  once  with  them. 
But  don't  let  her  brains  atrophy.  They're  the  biggest 
inheritance  she  brings  you.  And  just  a  baby  or  two, 
of  course.  Not  many,  for  we  really  don't  want,  you 
know,  so  many  as  we  did  when  war  and  pestilence  killed 
us  like  flies. ' ' 

To  Molly  her  words  were  few  but  pithy.  ''It's  only," 
said  she,  "a  woman  who  is  enough  of  a  woman  that  can 
help  a  man  to  -his  manhood. ' ' 

But  the  girl  knew  next  morning  that  she  had  been 
only  too  much  of  a  woman  in  the  low  sense  when  she 
saw  on  her  plate  a  letter  in  Archer  Bellew's  handwrit- 
ing. With  two  pairs  of  eyes  burning  on  her  face,  she 
opened  it,  read,  and  then  handed  it  to  Stephen.  Now 
she  understood  the  saying  of  the  man  who  excused  him- 
self for  getting  drunk  by  pleading  he  wanted  to  get  off 
the  eternal  wheel.  One  could  never  stop  the  whirling 
of  the  infernal  thing. 

The  letter  was  a  mere  request,  earnestly  worded,  for 
the  favour  of  a  last  interview  with  the  writer. 

"Say  that  you  will  meet  him,  but  must  bring  a  friend 
with  you,"  said  Anerley. 

"And  the  friend?"  asked  Molly. 

"Myself." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  flashed  a  glance  at  him,  for  she  would 
gladly  have  had  him  different.  Yet  she  understood,  for, 
after  all,  he  was  risking  his  all  on  this  cast  of  the  dice 
and  naturally  wanted  to  see  his  wife  with  the  man  who 
might  have  them  cogged  in  his  favour. 

Molly  frankly  hated  Anerley.  He  could  do  a  gen- 
erous thing,  but  not  in  generous  spirit.  He  wanted  to 
know  exactly  how  true  her  story  had  been.  Yet  she 


274  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

forgave  him,  too,  for  she  was  learning  that  where  one 
loves,  one  must  ignore  the  spots  on  one's  sun.  All  the 
same  she  scarcely  opened  her  lips  during  the  hours  that 
elapsed  ere  the  two  stood  together  at  the  place  she  had 
appointed  to  meet  Bellew.  It  was  a  point  on  the  cliffs 
well  known  to  all  three. 

At  last  they  saw  a  man  approaching,  his  head  just  a 
black  speck  against  the  sea  as  he  walked  along  by  the 
stone  hedge  that  protected  the  cliff.  Molly  moved  for- 
ward to  the  strip  of  grass  that  led  by  a  cliff  path  down 
to  the  cove  beneath.  Then  she  saw  from  his  face  that 
Bellew  had  caught  sight  of  Stephen  standing  behind  her 
. .  .  .  like  a  pillar  of  salt.  She  grasped  wildly  for 
self-control,  but  the  melodrama  of  it  all  struck  her 
so  overwhelmingly  that  she  laughed  aloud.  To  her 
nerves  her  own  laughter  sounded  ear-splitting  in  its 
ribaldry. 

Bellew  was  the  first  to  recover  himself ;  he  was  wildly 
enraged  and  therein  Stephen  not  only  scored  the  first 
point,  but  got  a  good  grip  on  his  own  coolness. 

''Might  I  ask,"  enquired  Bellew,  "whether  this  is  a 
comedy  or  a  tragedy  that  we  are  rehearsing?  For  the 
lady  seems  in  doubt.  That  it  is  the  fifth  act  is,  of 
course,  evident." 

"Miss  "Woodruffe, "  said  Stephen,  "wanted  me  to  be 
here,  for  she  has  done  me  the  honour  to  say  she  will 
marry  me." 

"And  has,  as  I  happen  to  know,  a  taste  for  histri- 
onics. For  she  is,  of  course,  the  protagonist  in  the 
drama. ' ' 

Molly  noted  his  inability  to  use  simple  words.  Weird 
concatenations  of  barbarous  Latinisms  whirled  in  her 
own  brain.  The  whole  genius  of  the  Saxon  tongue  be- 
gan to  shriek  at  her  for  reality. 

Then  Stephen  walked  away,  not  without  a  certain 
Pharisaic  consciousness  of  the  fine  part  he  was  playing. 
As  he  did  so  he  heard  Bellew  exclaim  in  stifled  tones : 


DUKEEIPPEN  275 

' '  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  making  a  laughing- 
stock of  me  like  this?" 

Half  hesitating,  Anerley  wondered  for  a  second 
whether  he  ought  to  leave  her  alone  with  a  man  in  such 
a  mood  as  this.  Yet  Molly's  coolness  reassured  him. 

"You  know,"  said  she,  "that  I  did  not  mean  that. 
No  one  meant  it.  But  I  wanted  to  do  the  straight  thing 
by  you  both.  There  have  been  lies  enough." 

They  walked  side  by  side  down  the  path  to  the  beach. 
Round  a  tiny  headland  to  the  left  they  could  look  down 
on  a  black  chasm.  At  the  base  the  wave  broke  on  piled  up 
rocks,  seething  beneath  the  nesting  places  of  the  puffins 
that  starred  the  ledges  with  the  whiteness  of  their  wings. 
The  grasses  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff  waved  in  the  wind 
that  eddied  round  the  bay.  Below,  the  line  of  surf 
broke  on  the  red-brown  sand.  Across  on  the  far  side 
of  the  wide  bay  the  sun  made  a  pathway  across  the  sea. 
Inland  a  garden  party  was  in  progress  and  the  faint 
sound  of  the  band  wound  itself  into  that  sentiment 
which,  in  a  girl's  heart,  is  the  prelude  to  passion.  It 
laid  hands  upon  her  while  Bellew  pleaded,  with  the  dark 
figure  of  Anerley  seated  on  the  cliff  edge  giving  point  to 
his  eagerness. 

Archer  was  proud  of  his  own  eloquence,  but  Molly 
scarcely  heard  his  words  as  she  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the 
mingled  music  of  the  sea,  the  band,  and  his  voice.  Still 
she  struggled.  She  had  forgotten  the  man  up  above, 
but  Bellew  had  not;  the  consciousness  only  fired  his 
tongue. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  cried  at  last. 

They  were  both  by  now  up  against  That  Which  De- 
nies. In  the  girl  it  was  something  within  her  own  na- 
ture; in  the  man  it  was  something  without,  the  baffling 
power  of  a  will  that  is  other  than  one's  own.  Molly's 
mind  was  a  citadel  that  repels  the  foe  by  flinging  back 
the  siege  ladders.  In  her,  thoughts  crowded  after  the 
first  silence  before  the  onrush  of  attack.  She  remem- 


276  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

bered  everything;  scenes  of  childhood,  previous  yield- 
ings,  former  battles. 

To  Bellew  it  was  a  blow  in  the  face  that  stuns  till, 
maddened,  the  mind  flings  itself  like  a  bull  on  the  as- 
sailant. He  fell  upon  the  plainly  querulous  complaint 
of  a  child  at  last. 

"But  I  want  you,"  he  cried;  "don't  you  understand 
that  I  want  you  ? ' ' 

"I'm  brain,  and  heart,  and  body,"  said  she,  also  sim- 
ple now.  "You  haven't  any  use  for  all  three." 

"I  want  you  for  your  sweetness,  want  you  as  I've 
never  wanted  any  woman  yet." 

"But  not  for  keeps,"  said  she,  smiling  at  the  child- 
ishness of  her  phrase.  "Not  for  keeps." 

Before  the  bare  truth  he  stood  in  silence.  It  seemed 
as  hard  to  argue  with  this  child  as  to  grasp  a  cloud. 

' '  I  want  you. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't." 

"Then,  damn  you,  go." 

She  stumbled  up  the  path,  dislodging  pebbles  on  her 
way.  Panting,  every  now  and  then  she  passed  her 
tongue  over  her  lips.  She  could  feel  the  saltness  of  the 
sweat  on  her  skin.  All  her  brain  was  alert  now,  for 
had  it  not  struck  its  blow  for  freedom?  She  was  going 
to  Stephen,  because,  on  the  whole,  he  meant  what  her 
mind  chose  as  best,  honourable  right  doing  in  the  sight 
of  day.  It  mattered,  indeed,  what  she  did — to  herself. 
For  she  was  a  little  universe,  the  only  one  of  which  she 
had  any  sure  and  certain  knowledge.  Mrs.  Knyvett  had 
builded  better  than  she  knew. 

Yet  the  girl  could  see  Bellew 's  figure  on  the  sands;  it 
turned  a  corner  and  was  out  of  sight.  And  with  it  her 
heart  seemed  torn  from  her  body.  Then  she  was 
ashamed.  She  had  chosen  the  lower  levels,  the  com- 
fortable smugness  of  easy  life. 

It  was  no  conquest  she  had  won,  for  it  left  her  with 
this  pain  that  turned  and  turned  like  a  sword  in  her 


DUKERIPPEN  277 

heart.  She  tried  to  remember  that  Bellew  had  held  her 
lightly,  would  not  have  minded  making  her  an  object 
of  suspicion  to  chambermaids  and  porters  who  would 
read  her  story  in  her  face.  Yet  all  that  was  nothing 
now,  for  she  could  only  see  a  black  dot  on  the  sands. 

Hands  clenched  in  his  coat  pockets,  Anerley  came  up 
to  her.  "Without  a  word  they  sat  down  side  by  side, 
staring  out  to  sea  like  two  huge  birds.  So  still  were 
they  that  the  dry  rustle  of  a  grass  snake  was  quite  audi- 
ble and  the  drip  of  watery  ooze  from  the  cliff  sounded 
like  a  perpetual  spray  of  falling  water. 

The  darkness  throbbed  into  the  bay  beneath,  till  the 
surf  was  a  thin  white  edge  against  a  heaving  blackness. 

Molly  sat  with  her  arms  across  her  knees,  staring  out 
to  sea.  Every  now  and  then  she  sobbed  convulsively, 
while  Stephen's  eyes  followed  aimlessly  the  circling 
flight  of  the  homing  gulls.  Great  lashing  blows  seemed 
to  have  been  laid  across  his  nature,  so  that  the  weals 
striped  his  back.  For  he  was  ashamed,  but  of  what  he 
could  not  tell ;  perhaps  only  of  the  human  plight. 

Then  internal  laughter  caught  him,  for  next  week  he 
would  very  likely  be  writing  a  paragraph  of  journalese 
about  Bellew. 

The  girl  shivered  and  he  took  off  his  coat  to  put  it 
round  her.  When  their  hands  touched,  he  found  them 
clammy-cold  and  so  chafed  them,  holding  them  against 
his  waistcoat.  Till  that  he  had  thought  of  going  away, 
of  giving  her  up.  Then  he  knew  he  should  not. 

"Molly,"  he  said,  "you  care  for  him  so  much?  But 
you  know  it  won't  do?" 

And  that  was  about  the  truth  of  it  after  all. 

Then,  very  slowly  and  sadly,  they  went  back  to  Mrs. 
Knyvett,  who  put  Molly  to  bed  with  a  hot  water  bottle 
at  her  feet  and  three  pillules  of  aconite  inside  her — 
against  chill.  For  it's  no  use  adding  catarrh  to  the 
troubles  of  the  heart.  But  Stephen  sat  up  half  the  night, 
wondering  at  Mrs.  Knyvett's  audacity.  In  the  morning 


278  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

he  put  it  to  her  straight :  "Was  she  doing  right ? ' '  For 
he  had  a  simple-minded  way  of  needing  reassurance  in 
big  things,  though  he  was  a  very  confident  man  in  small 
ones. 

"My  dear  Stephen,"  cried  she,  fiercely  alert,  "I  know 
I  am.  And  if  you  could  only  tell  how  hard  I've  been 
praying  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation, '  these  days,  you  'd 
have  mercy  on  my  nerves  and  not  go  over  your  tracks 
forty  times  in  the  day." 

So  Mrs.  Knyvett  married  them  from  her  house  in 
town.  The  bride's  mother  was  present  in  dark  green 
and  a  complacent  demeanour,  for  things  might  have 
been  far  worse,  though  of  how  far  she  remained  ignorant 
to  her  dying  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  SLEEPING  LADY:  IN  THIS  BELLEW  SENDS  ROUND  THE 
FIERY  CROSS  AND  THE  READER  MAKES  THE  ACQUAINTANCE 
OF  A  SELECT  COMPANY  OF  ELEMENTALS. 

LEATHER  BACH  died  away  into  silence  as  Sara 
-•-  looked  up  from  her  piano  keys  to  find  her  husband 
standing  just  within  the  lighted  circle  that  revealed  the 
heavy  timbered  roof  of  her  music  room. 

"What  is  it,  Archer?"  she  exclaimed  sharply. 

This  was  exactly  the  question  he  could  not  answer, 
for  no  man  will  openly  acknowledge  that  he  does  not 
belong  to  those  elect  ones  who  can  lose  the  game  without 
slamming  the  door. 

Yet  Bellew  had  just  come  from  Molly  Woodruff e  with 
a  pitiful  rage  of  impotence  in  his  heart.  Deeper  yet 
an  instinct  of  cleanliness  stirred  in  him,  a  desire  to  wash 
and  be  clean  of  lies.  And  below  that,  lurked  cruelty; 
he  wanted  to  wring  his  wife's  heart,  to  force  from  her 
some  sign  of  weakness.  For  she  stood  to  him  to-night 
as  a  symbol  of  self-control. 

Unknown  to  himself,  Bellew 's  attitude  towards  Sara 
was  one  of  fear — not  of  her  individuality,  but  of  the 
superimposed  reticence  that  came  of  her  breeding. 
Her  forebears  had  been  scholars  to  whom  self-control  was 
second  nature ;  his  ancestors  had  bellowed  out  their  rage 
in  devil-hunts,  had  sobbed  their  contrition  on  penitent 
forms.  Fineness  of  self-command  he  despised  as  brain- 
less, but  revered  as  something  he  could  not  achieve. 
Mentally  he  was  unpruned;  he  told  all,  yet  shivered  at 
the  solecism  he  had  committed. 

279 


280  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

He  settled  himself  in  a  creaking  basket  chair,  while 
she  longed  to  escape. 

"Won't  to-morrow  do?"  she  asked  wearily. 

"No,"  answered  he  curtly. 

And  she  acquiesced.  Yet  of  late  she  had  gone  to  bed 
night  after  night  only  longing  to  awake  and  find  her 
burden  gone.  Somehow  to  childlike  souls,  it  is  always 
a  surprise  to  discover  yesterday  still  waiting  for  them 
round  the  corner  of  the  bed-curtains. 

"Sara!  Sara!"  he  exclaimed,  letting  his  hand  clash 
on  the  keys.  The  dissonance  was  a  relief  to  his  nerves. 
He  was  struck  afresh  by  her  beauty;  its  oval  calm  had 
the  aloofness  of  a  Greek  woman's  without  the  mindless- 
ness. 

With  a  quick  catch  of  her  breath  she  listened  and 
where  a  man  would  have  marvelled  at  the  second-rate 
nature  he  showed,  the  woman  felt  but  pity. 

It  was,  at  first,  a  chronicle  of  the  hard  facts  that  lead 
to  ruin.  His  sales  were  diminishing,  he  was  deep  in 
debt,  had  given  promissory  notes  right  and  left.  Worst 
of  all,  on  his  hands  was  an  unfinished  novel  that  would 
be  a  despair  to  everyone  but  his  enemies.  And  he  had 
several  of  these,  for  he  was  that  fearful  wild  fowl  in 
English  literature,  a  naturalist  in  style  and  a  pessimist 
in  philosophy.  For  slapping  the  face  of  English  ideal- 
ism is  like  the  pastime  called  riding  at  the  popinjay; 
time  and  again  the  popinjay  smites  a  careless  rider  on  the 
jowl. 

Sara  was  glad  at  the  story;  glad,  not  for  his  misery, 
but  for  her  own  power.  Thrilling  from  head  to  foot, 
she  bent  down  to  him  and  sketched  a  plan  of  campaign 
against  the  approaching  bankruptcy.  Never  had  she 
been  happier  than  now.  Those  shares,  said  she,  must  be 
sold ;  on  that  bit  of  her  land  a  mortgage  raised.  With 
two  lines  on  her  smooth  brows  she  planned  how  she 
would  go  up  to  her  lawyer;  fortunately  Anne  was  at 
home  to  keep  her  hand  on  the  helm.  Flushed,  even 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  281 

laughing,  she  recounted  the  profits  of  her  poultry,  of  her 
small  forcing  houses. 

"No!  damn  it,  no!"  said  he,  rising  and  pushing  back 
his  chair  with  a  scraping  jar.  "I  can't  stand  this." 

He  could  not  tell  which  of  them  he  hated  most,  him- 
self or  her.  He  began  to  realise  the  mastery  of  detail 
she  had  always  shown  in  her  household  management ; 
there  shone  before  his  eyes  a  vista  of  spotless,  shining 
surfaces,  of  perfection  in  such  trifles  as  toilet  appoint- 
ments and  careful  account  books.  Even  her  well-cor- 
seted figure  was  a  grievance  and  her  immaculate  pro- 
priety little  short  of  an  insult. 

"I  asked  a  girl  to  bolt  with  me  to-night,"  he  snarled, 
"and  she  wouldn't,  because  she  is  like  you — thinks  more 
of  her  own  clean  skirts  than  of  anything  else  in  the 
world. ' ' 

Then,  as  Sara  would  have  risen,  he  laid  a  hand  on  her 
and  held  her  down. 

"Sit  there!  Sit  there!"  he  cried.  "You  shall  hear 
the  truth  for  once." 

White  and  silent  she  sat  without  moving  a  muscle. 
The  next  moment  his  mood  changed  suddenly  and  with 
a  laugh,  he  leant  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  wonder  what  you  really  think  of  me,  Sara,  behind 
those  quiet  eyes.  You've  done  a  very  generous  thing 
and  I've  only  replied  by  insults.  Gad!  What  a  cur  I 
am  all  round !  Ain  't  I,  Sara,  ain  't  I  ? " 

Before  her  quietness  he  felt  like  a  ghost  who  cannot 
attract  the  attention  of  the  living.  He  recognised  this 
now  as  his  attitude  towards  her  during  their  whole  mar- 
ried life. 

' '  I  wonder  what  possessed  you  to  be  so  generous  when 
I  told  you  how  I  was  going  to  pieces.  Just  the  same 
feeling,  I  suppose,  that  would  make  you  try  to  mend  a 
smashed  mug.  Tell  me,  Sara,  try  to  tell  me." 

She  drew  her  brows  together.  Then  he  heard  a  shud- 
dering sigh. 


282  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"I  cannot,"  she  said,  ''you  hurt  me  so." 

The  childish  phrase  cut  across  his  nerves  like  a  whip. 
But  the  pain  he  felt  only  spurred  him  to  his  cruel  self- 
imposed  task.  He  recognised  the  weakness  of  his  words, 
yet  persisted  for  the  self -relief  it  gave,  for  the  cleansing 
power  he  felt  in  her  cold  nature. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  story  she  had  not  known  all 
along.  But  painted  now  in  simile  and  sounding  phrase, 
it  started  from  low  relief  to  high.  He  described  how  a 
face  seen  in  a  drawing-room  or  at  a  street  corner  would 
incarnate  the  idea  that  floated  in  his  brain.  Sight  was 
followed  by  pursuit,  by  the  hunting  of  the  face  till  the 
nature  behind  had  yielded  its  secret.  So  he  had  chiselled 
lives,  women's  especially,  out  of  the  marble  of  conven- 
tionality in  which  they  were  hidden.  The  process  once 
completed,  he  tired.  But  not  till  he  had  stripped  each 
spirit  of  its  rags  of  concealment. 

But  behind  it  all,  Sara  knew  that  he  felt  like  a  Greek 
who  had  desecrated  the  secret  of  beauty,  had  dissected, 
not  carved.  The  sense  of  sin  he  acknowledged  was  to 
her  strange,  unknown,  extraordinary.  She  had  never 
realised  a  feeling  of  guilt;  it  was  as  foreign  to  her 
nature  as  was  the  Hebrew  God  which  stood  for  its  sym- 
bol. She  could  feel  dirty ;  she  could  never  feel  sinful. 

But  Archer  was  in  pain.  She  put  a  pitiful  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  gently. 

His  eyes  sought  hers  gropingly.  For  a  second  time 
he  had  aimed  a  blow  at  her  tranquillity  and  a  second 
time  had  missed  the  mark.  It  was  incomprehensible  to 
him.  She  was  not  a  woman,  she  was  a  statue,  yet  an 
atmosphere  of  serene  sincerity  reached  down  to  him. 

"I've  never  felt  my  feet  on  the  ground,"  he  said. 

This  time  she  understood  what  he  meant  by  intuitions 
finer  than  are  moved  by  spoken  words.  He  had  not 
been  born  of  a  class  that  can  with  impunity  spend  a 
lifetime  in  spinning  cobwebs.  His  fathers  had  begotten 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  283 

children,  had  spent  a  lifetime  in  toil  and  had  at  the  same 
time  secured,  by  proper  religious  investment,  a  desirable 
nook  in  the  heavenly  mansions.  They  were  "fitty 
men";  he  was  none.  His  talent  had  smeared  a  line  of 
fog  across  his  manhood. 

"I'd  never  anyone  who — just  wanted  me.  You  never 
did,  you  know." 

She  tightened  her  lips,  judging  him. 

"But  I  wished  you  to  know — about  the  girl,  about 
everything.  It  seemed  your  right.  But  perhaps  you 
did  know?  And  put  it  all  aside?" 

"Yes,"  said  she  gravely. 

"My  life's  been  a  lie.  Old  Vin  began  it.  Then  we 
awoke  and  found  ourselves  in  the  wrong  Paradise. 
That  was  it.  I  deserved  it,  for  what  had  gone  before. 
You  did  not." 

He  wiped  his  forehead,  for  this  process,  which  he  had 
compared  to  a  bathing  in  Jordan  for  health,  was  proving 
rather  a  muddy  business.  Still,  he  would  stick  to  it. 

"Before  I  wrote  'The  Master  Law,'  I  was  under  a 
cloud.  That's  a  good  thing  sometimes.  Shows  who  are 
your  real  friends.  They  said  I 'd  stolen.  But  the  girl  I 
was  engaged  to  didn't  believe  it.  I  was  near  suicide, 
for  everyone  turned  against  me,  all  but  the  girl.  She 
came  to  me — by  night." 

Dead  silence. 

"That  saved  my  reason.  She  came  again  and  again. 
It's  the  best  light  in  which  I've  ever  seen  a  woman. 
And  it's  the  only  one  in  which  I've  never  painted  one. 
Couldn't,  you  know,  couldn't.  But  I  didn't  marry  her. 
I've  always  hated  what  I'd  got  and  wanted  what  I 
hadn't.  That's  me." 

"Why  have  you  told  me  this,  Archer?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  that  you  might  look  at  me. 
You  always  give  me  the  impression  that  I'm  invisible  to 
you.  And  I  don't  like  the  feeling.  Don't  like  it  at  all. 
No,  I  don't." 


284  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

He  seemed  to  be  answering  an  unseen  questioner. 
Sara  passed  her  hand  wearily  over  her  forehead,  con- 
scious more  of  being  stunned  by  fatigue  than  by  any- 
thing else.  She  got  up,  closed  the  piano  and  walked 
down  the  long  room  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

In  the  quadrangle,  guarded  by  tall  elms,  everything 
was  still.  Thin  as  any  dream  the  moon  hung  like  a 
shadow  behind  a  tree.  In  the  blink  of  light  from  the 
doorway  pale  moths  fluttered  towards  the  white,  up- 
turned faces  of  the  flowers  in  the  herbaceous  border. 
The  sky  was  star-fretted,  for  the  moon  was  but  young 
in  the  month  as  yet.  Like  a  great  outspread  cross  the 
milky  way  lay  above  the  house  and  over  the  velvet 
shadows  of  the  trees.  Country  sounds  filtered  through 
the  green  branches,  the  cry  of  a  mousing  owl,  the  bark- 
ing of  a  dog.  A  sighing  breath  came  laden  with  the 
scent  of  sun-dried  fields  and  behind  it  was  the  eternal 
sighing  of  the  sea.  Earth  was  held  in  the  hollow  of  a 
great  hand. 

"Is  she  alive?"  said  Sara.     "Your  wife,  I  mean." 

"My  wife?" 

"Your  real  wife." 

"So  that's  how  you  take  it.  Yes,  she's  alive  and 
famous.  She  didn't  go  under.  Why  should  she  in- 
deed? She  was  one  of  the  best.  'Twas  I  that  went 
down,  contrary  to  the  usual  rot  of  the  moralists. 
Funny  how  the  thing  rankles  and  stings  in  me  yet.  So 
long  ago,  too." 

' '  And  you  a  man ! ' '  exclaimed  Sara  contemptuously. 

"Ah,  but  it's  different  now  for  us,"  he  cried  eagerly. 
For  the  interest  of  intellectual  argument  obscured  the 
pain  of  the  situation.  "There's  a  queer  thing  happen- 
ing to  men,  to  some  of  them  at  least,  nowadays.  For 
the  standard  of  honour  we've  set  up  for  women  for  so 
many  generations  is  avenging  itself  on  us  nowadays. 
Things  in  a  man's  background  that  a  century  ago  he 
wouldn't  even  have  remembered — well,  they  gall  and 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  285 

irritate  us  unbearably  now.  We  have  set  up  a  Statue 
of  Holiness  and  said  to  women:  'This  be  your  God.' 
When,  lo,  the  thing  turns  on  us  and  strikes  us  dumb. 
Half  modern  literature  is  based  on  that. ' ' 

Sara  laughed  and  the  sound  of  it  electrified  them 
both.  But  it  was  neither  sardonic  nor  cynical,  for  with 
a  vital  energy  within  that  none  had  guessed,  she  was 
alert  with  desperate  courage. 

"I'm  glad  to  know — all,"  she  said.  Nor  was  there 
the  shadow  of  resentment  in  her  tones.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  having  dreaded  knowledge,  she  was  relieved  to  find 
how  little  it  could  touch  her. 

"But  this  girl — you  spoke  of?"  she  went  on,  and  to 
his  amazement  seemed  merely  anxious  for  his  honour 
and  the  child's  good  name. 

"She's  safe.  She's  chosen  a  better  man,"  he  said 
curtly.  Nor  would  he  hold  himself  up  to  Sara's  sense 
of  humour,  for  he  still  wanted  to  feel  himself  no  figure 
of  fun.  Quickly  he  skated  from  the  topic. 

"It's  spoilt  my  work.  That's  all  pinchbeck.  I've 
been  afraid  to  tackle  a  plain  story.  And  the  plain 
stories,  after  all,  are  the  big  things." 

Sara  smiled  in  the  dimness  to  see  how  instinctively  he 
felt  himself  the  protagonist  of  the  drama.  Round  him 
and  his  work  centred  all  these  perturbations.  Yet  she, 
too,  had  her  work;  nor  was  she  without  a  capacity  for 
pain.  Then  she  switched  off  the  lights  and  went  into 
the  house. 

Bellew  watched  her  go  with  a  sense  upon  him  as  of 
one  who  is  steering  through  a  fog-bank. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  prided  himself  on  his 
aristocratic  virtues.  Humility  he  hated.  Pity,  as  shown 
to  himself,  was  a  wound  to  his  pride;  as  shown  to  an- 
other, a  contemptuous  insult.  Thus,  in  his  dealings 
with  men.  With  women  it  was  otherwise.  For  he  held 
that  the  face  a  man  should  turn  to  a  woman  was  the 
face  of  his  weakness.  In  craving  pity  from  her,  he 


286  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

showed  himself  virile,  for  thus  he  conveyed  to  her  that 
most  subtle  compliment,  the  perception  of  her  own 
power. 

A  strange,  cold  woman  Sara  seemed  to  him.  But 
probably  he  had  killed  something  in  her;  according  to 
the  moralists,  that  was  quite  right,  for  all  religion,  espe- 
cially the  women's  brand  of  it,  is  mere  purity  by 
atrophy.  Good  women  are  as  scarred  trees,  tempest- 
riven,  wind-burnt. 

In  himself  to-night  many  things  had  died,  mostly 
illusions.  For  as  flint  striking  flint  produces  a  spark, 
so  denial  meeting  demand  had  struck  a  flame  in  him  that 
burnt  up  his  dross.  And  thrown  into  the  melting-pot, 
he  yielded  a  tiny  core  of  good  metal.  It  was  with 
pleasure  that  he  recognised  the  fact  that  to-night  he 
had  at  least  engaged  in  the  big  contest.  Most  of  us  hide 
from  it  by  rubbing  against  our  fellows,  by  shutting  out 
the  stars  with  a  flapping  newspaper  or  a  Bill  that  shall 
antedate  the  millennium.  Bellew  had  performed  the 
miracle  with  a  figure  draped  in  hues  of  dawn,  videlicet, 
a  dream  woman.  When  she  vanished  he  had  a  fleeting 
vision  of  the  truth. 

So  long  had  Sara  been  in  the  habit  of  warding  off 
sensation  by  petty  duties  that  from  sheer  habit  she  took 
extra  pains  with  her  undressing  that  night.  But  at  last 
the  fine  dark  hair  was  plaited,  the  dressing-gown  slipped 
on.  She  sank  into  a  lounge  chair  by  the  window  and 
with  hands  folded  on  her  lap  waited  for  what  the  night 
would  bring,  for  even  now  her  volition  seemed  to  come 
from  something  outside  herself.  A  light  flitted  from 
the  staircase  window  on  to  the  garden.  Then  its  disap- 
pearance was  followed  by  the  clan^  of  her  husband's 
door. 

With  the  massive  sensation  of  relief  from  pain  she 
relaxed  all  her  nature.  It  had  not  been  entirely  her 
fault,  this  failure  of  her  marriage.  Something  un- 
known, something  behind  her,  had  spoilt  it.  Then,  lean- 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  287 

ing  forward  suddenly,  she  thought  fiercely.  For  in  a 
quick  intuitive  flash  she  had  caught  sight  of  the  road  in 
front  of  her.  Now  she  was  forcing  her  mind  painfully 
to  travel  along  the  way  that  instinct  had  traversed  in  a 
second.  We  see  solutions,  but  only  a  few  of  us  care  to 
think  them  out  step  by  step.  Sara  was  one  of  the  few, 
not  because  she  distrusted  instinct,  but  because  she  knew 
the  comfort  of  the  mind's  justification. 

Archer  must  be  released  from  a  marriage  that  was  but 
a  lie,  a  living  piece  of  hypocrisy.  This  release  he  would 
never  seek  himself;  nay,  could  not  by  any  means  that 
were  possible  to  a  sensitive  man.  She  alone  could  do 
it  for  him,  she,  the  woman  who  had  all  her  life  just 
floated  with  the  stream  of  circumstance. 

For  the  man  of  daring  speculation  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  act.  Thought  and  deed  were  always 
fatally  divorced  in  him;  even  now  on  his  desk  was  an 
article  on  the  modern  Brahmin  class,  written  to  prove 
that  the  artist  ought  to  be  above  pecuniary  rewards. 
Yet  nobody  would  fight  more  fiercely  than  Bellew  for 
royalties.  In  short,  he  desired  to  be  a  hermit,  but  had 
no  love  of  roots. 

Leaning  forward  still  further  she  let  the  air  play 
across  her  face.  With  it  came  the  cry  of  a  field-mouse. 
She  held  her  breath  till  it  ceased,  feeling  herself  caught 
by  the  breath  of  Reality  that  all  her  life  she  had  sought 
to  avoid. 

Then  suddenly  she  heard  it  working  all  around  her, 
the  stir  of  the  living  will  to  surpass  itself  through  strife 
and  pain  and  upward  longing.  In  the  sighing  wind,  in 
the  swaying  tree,  in  her  own  beating  heart  as  in  the 
death-cry  of  the  vole  it  sounded.  And  the  whistle  of  its 
going  was  like  a  thin  licking  flame  in  sunny  air. 

It  was  unbearable,  this  realisation  of  internal  up- 
heaval. 

She  lit  a  candle  and  opened  the  door  of  her  room. 
Passing  on  bare  feet  along  the  thick  carpet  of  the  cor- 


288  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

ridor,  she  paused  outside  her  husband's  door.  She  felt 
like  the  captain  of  a  ship  when  the  barometers  register 
change.  Turning  the  handle  of  the  door,  she  waited  and 
then  from  his  breathing  she  knew  he  was  asleep.  She 
slipped  behind  the  screen,  shading  the  light  with  her 
hand.  He  lay  with  the  breath  whistling  from  half-open 
lips.  The  long  room  was  in  shadow;  only  the  gold 
filling  of  a  front  tooth  faintly  caught  the  light. 

With  the  sight  of  him  asleep,  head  on  arm,  she  felt  a 
wanton.  For  the  first  time  she  realised  that  release  of 
Archer  from  the  chains  that  bound  him  meant — going 
to  her  own  joy.  Memories  worked;  the  sweetness  of 
Italian  nights.  She  had  never  in  her  life  sought  her 
own.  To  leave  him,  to  go  to  a  lover !  that  she  could  not 
do.  Pain,  sorrow,  these  she  would  gladly  have  paid, 
but  not  joy,  not  even  to  cut  away  the  gangrene  that  was 
corrupting  his  life  and  hers. 

For  now  she  knew  what  Billy  Knyvett  had  been  to 
her — a  quiet  resting  place  where  her  heart  always  had 
its  home.  Here,  or  on  the  other  side  of  death,  she  could 
never  be  lost  while  in  any  shape  or  form  he  survived. 
Such  trust  as  this  is  far  above  all  winds  of  change. 

It  struck  her,  that  phrase,  "all  winds  of  change." 
Yet  it  seemed  that  this  change,  from  pure  woman  to 
wanton,  even  such  love  as  hers  could  not  survive.  Pas- 
sion was  the  one  coin  she  could  not  pay  down  to  buy  her 
husband's  release. 

And  at  that,  the  second  sleuth-hound  caught  her,  the 
hound  of  Pain.  Like  two  borzoi  on  the  steppes  they 
raced  on  each  side  of  her,  Pain  and  Reality.  She  could 
not  desecrate  the  nest  of  trust  and  honour  that  her  feel- 
ing for  Knyvett  had  created  round  her — not  even  to 
help  her  husband. 

Yet  the  Reality  tore  at  her  heart.  She  opened  the 
door  in  haste  to  escape  down  the  corridor  once  more. 
And  the  hound  went  with  her: — 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  289 

"I  fled  him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 
I  fled  him  down  the  arches  of  the  years; 
I  fled  him  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 
Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  midst  of  tears 
I  hid  from  him,  and  under  running  laughter." 

She  stood  still  outside  Bellew's  room,  leaning  on  the 
sill.  Inadvertently,  with  a  sudden  movement,  her  sleeve 
swept  the  candle  to  the  ground  and  with  a  clatter  it  fell 
on  the  polished  margin  of  the  floor.  Holding  her 
breath  to  hear  if  it  had  awakened  anyone,  she  waited 
and  presently  a  door  opened  on  the  landing  above. 
Over  the  banisters  peered  a  white  head  with  four  white 
rolls  of  silver  on  the  forehead.  It  was  Elizabeth. 

"Mon  dieu,  Madame,"  she  whispered,  coming  down, 
her  skirts  a-trail,  her  bare  skinny  legs  like  birds'  claws, 
' '  'tis  thou.  I  hear  a  noise.  I  say  to  myself,  '  a  robber 
at  last,'  and  tearing  off  the  curl  papers,  I  arise." 

Sara  shook  with  silent  laughter.  "Elizabeth,  thy 
coquetry  is  never-dying.  The  vanity  of  the  thing !  To 
try  to  charm  a  burglar  with  curled  locks." 

' '  It  was  instinctive  courtesy.  I  would  not  shock,  even 
a  robber,  with  the  sight  of  my  bare  brow.  But  Madame 
is  white,  ill,  sick." 

They  had  reached  Sara's  door  by  now  and  Elizabeth 
deftly  unfastened  her  mistress's  robe  and  turning  back 
the  sheet  made  her  lie  down.  Now  that  the  excitement 
was  over,  long  hot  shivers  shook  her  between  the  cool 
sheets.  Elizabeth  bent  down  and  began  smoothing  her 
forehead  with  long  sweeping  strokes. 

"Elizabeth,"  said  she  at  last,  "what  must  it  feel  like 
to  be  a  not-respectable  woman?" 

"Je  m'en  fiche,"  said  Elizabeth,  "one  eats  and  drinks 
and  sleeps  just  the  same.  And  the  state  is,  doubtless, 
not  without  its  compensations.  Bah !  what  does  it  mat- 
ter, that  comme-il-fautf  It  is  the  creation  of  the 
messieurs.  They  like  it  in  the  thing  they  own.  It  is 
like  a  polished  skin,  a  bright  eye.  But  a  woman  cares 


290  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

for  what  she  is,  not  for  what  she  is  not.  To  be  this, 
that,  or  the  other,  a  good  manager,  a  clever  mother,  a 
skilled  flower-maker,  that  pleases  her.  But  that  she  is 
no  free  lover;  pah!  N'importe.  We  all  hold  something 
in  our  hands  to  fling  away;  some  fling  fortune,  some 
good  name,  some  wits.  And  those  who  keep  all  and 
fling  nothing  away !  Ah,  well,  le  bon  Dieu  weighs  them 
down  with  their  own  stupidity." 

Elizabeth  was  right;  woman,  like  man,  cannot  really 
be  satisfied  with  the  passive  virtue  of  not  being.  To 
give,  to  work,  to  share ;  this  is  her  instinct.  Eeputation, 
in  the  sex  meaning,  is  a  mere  chattel  quality  and  a 
woman's  purity  a  thing  to  be  questioned  only  in  the 
slave  market.  The  individual  places  a  higher  value  on 
herself  than  that. 

"But  Madame  is  in  pain,"  said  Elizabeth,  coming 
back  into  the  room  with  hot  milk.  ' '  Tell  the  old  woman, 
dearie,"  she  pleaded,  slipping  a  hand  under  Sara's 
shoulders  and  coaxing  her  to  drink. 

"If  I  went  away,  Elizabeth,  went  away  from  here, 
from  my  husband — what  then?" 

Elizabeth  blinked  in  the  candle-light.  Her  eyebrows 
and  eyelids  were  white  like  those  of  a  mouse,  her  lined 
face  trembled  in  its  baggy  pouches. 

"Ah,  Madame  Sara,  Madame  Sara,"  she  cried. 

"What  then?"  persisted  Sara, 

"Eh,  but  Monsieur  Billee  he  would  be  happy.  It  is 
for  this  he  have  waited. ' ' 

"No,  no,  no." 

"Ah,  oui.  For  Monsieur  Billee  is  a  man.  Madame 
forgets  perhaps." 

Sara  turned  away.  It  was  true,  that  was  what  she 
had  forgotten  all  the  time.  Her  joy  was  his  and  noth- 
ing in  the  world  could  alter  that.  For  that  was  the  true 
Reality. 

"Why  has  he  never — said  anything,  Elizabeth?"  said 
she  at  last. 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  291 

' '  He  would  have  Madame  Sara  choose.  He  say :  '  Let 
her  come  and  lay  her  hand  in  mine.'  That  is  what  he 
wait  for.  When — something  has  moved  Madame." 

"Something  has,  Elizabeth.  He  is  going  down,"  she 
nodded  on  her  pillow  towards  the  door.  Elizabeth 
understood — and  grimaced. 

"Eh,  le  mari!"  she  exclaimed,  "who  cares?" 

"But  I  do,  Elizabeth." 

The  old  woman  was  silent,  but  when  at  last  her 
mistress  had  fallen  asleep,  she  rose,  stretched,  reached 
for  her  candle  and  went  out  of  the  room,  softly  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  Outside  her  master 's  bedroom,  she 
paused : 

"G-r-r-r-h,"  said  she,  showing  her  teeth  like  a  savage 
old  dog. 

Up  under  the  thatch  at  Foxholt  next  day  the  wind  was 
whistling  through  keyhole  and  window  cranny;  ivy 
sprays  were  lashing  themselves  with  shaggy  arms  against 
the  mullions  and  the  valley  below  was  blotted  out  in 
rain.  Everywhere  in  the  garret  was  the  hot  smell  of 
apples  lying  stored  in  straw  along  the  worm-eaten  floor. 
Bags  of  seeds,  huge  marrows  hung  from  the  rafters 
where  the  rats  swung  their  tails  o'  nights.  Dim  with 
the  ivy  that  tangled  the  windows,  grey  and  vast  and 
echoing,  the  place  fermented  with  the  mellow  scents  of 
autumnal  earth.  Husked  ears  of  corn  tickled  the  nose 
of  one  who  bent  above  the  layers  of  pippins,  quarrenders 
and  Blenheim  oranges. 

Uncle  Pip  Hawkins  placed  a  hand  in  the  small  of  his 
back  and  stretched  himself  with  a  grunt.  Opposite  him 
was  an  altar-like  mantelpiece  of  drab-stone  with  a  deli- 
cate wall  tracery  of  plaster  wreaths  above  it.  He  sat 
down  on  a  packing-case  and  began  to  nod.  There  was  a 
real  pleasure  in  the  sense  of  being  shut  off,  as  in  a 
fortress,  high  above  the  world  in  this  hill  house,  with 
curtains  of  rain  between  it  and  the  nearest  dwelling. 

Then  it  seemed  that  the  wind  fell,   dying  away  in 


292  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

great  booming  echoes  up  the  valley;  a  stillness  began, 
and  out  of  the  stillness  strange  whistling  sounds  arose. 
Even  the  tapping  of  the  ivy  had  ceased.  But  the 
whistling  was  more  insistent  with  the  darkening  of  the 
garret ;  sometimes  it  was  hot  and  buzzing  like  the  sound 
of  summer  flies,  sometimes  piercing  like  the  shrilling  of 
a  sandpiper.  In  Uncle  Pip  the  terror  of  sound  awoke 
another  sense  and  he  saw  that  through  the  closed  win- 
dows there  were  floating  long,  grey,  snouted  shadows, 
formless,  changing  incessantly  and  yet  whistling  with 
the  swiftness  of  their  passage  through  the  air. 

Small  as  the  withered  kernel  that  rattles  in  a  shell, 
the  soul  of  the  sleeper  tried  to  crouch  behind  barriers. 
But  in  vain.  The  shapes  swept  on  till  they  filled  him 
as  the  mist-wreaths  hide  the  river  in  a  valley.  With 
them  came  the  vision  of  a  wheel,  turning  backward  into 
the  abysm  of  the  past  and  carrying  the  dreamer  with  it. 
Through  flashing  torchlights,  shadowy  forests  showed, 
in  whose  vague  vistas  moved  things  that  he  desired — to 
feed  the  evil  in  him. 

For  now  he  knew  himself  to  be  free  of  that  sense  of 
the  trouble  of  the  world  which  makes  the  conscience  of 
our  age.  The  Man  of  Sorrows  that  we  all  carry  within 
was  gone;  instead  of  Him  there  reigned  the  Ancient 
Darkness  of  primeval  lust.  Vaguely  felt,  this  back- 
ground of  sorrow  had  often  held  him  back  from  word 
or  act  that  would  have  added  to  the  sum  of  evil  in  the 
world.  Now  it  was  gone  and  rioting  in  the  joy  of  his 
freedom,  he  visited  the  empty  place  in  his  mind.  Yet, 
after  all,  there  was  a  little  grain  of  wistfulness,  such 
as  one  may  feel  at  the  deadness  which  follows  old, 
familiar  pain. 

But  the  cruel  fancies  glanced  from  brain  to  limbs, 
crisping  the  finger-tips  and  curling  the  toes,  till  he 
shuffled  in  his  stockinged  feet.  He  was  looking  over  the 
edge  of  things.  It  lasted  an  age  or  a  second ;  no  matter 
which. 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  293 

Then  everything  merged  in  the  common  day.  Mr. 
Hawkins  sat  up,  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and 
breathing  heavily.  Feeling  old  and  shaken,  he  moved 
towards  the  head  of  the  staircase  that  by  square  landings 
plunged  into  the  well  of  the  house  beneath.  He  sat 
down  again  on  the  topmost  step,  holding  his  head  in  his 
hands,  for  he  had  suffered  a  dream  change.  He  had 
looked  in  his  dream  at  the  Jacob's  ladder  which  might 
appropriately  be  the  symbol  to  express  the  thought  of 
this  century,  since  all  its  courage  to  go  forward  is 
gathered  from  the  sight  of  the  road  already  travelled. 
So  that  reptilean  vestiges  may  well  be  taken  as  a  promise 
of  the  angelic  wings. 

Yet,  as  usual,  when  we  realise  the  little  speck  of 
lighted  time  in  which  we  stand  amid  the  Ancient  Dark- 
ness, it  was  fear  that  spurred  him.  His  thoughts  flew 
from  his  wife  to  Craneham  and  back  again.  He  took 
extra  precautions  against  fire  that  night  and  sniffed  at 
his  ricks  suspiciously. 

At  Craneham  next  morning  he  found  Mr.  Hereford 
breakfasting  with  James,  the  terrier,  in  attendance. 
Holding  a  tangerine  orange  delicately  between  finger 
and  thumb,  the  old  man  champed  his  jaws  till  the 
pouches  of  his  bearded  cheeks  wrinkled  his  eye-sockets. 
With  the  motto,  "There  is  no  religion  higher  than 
truth,"  carved  across  the  back  of  his  chair,  he  was  dis- 
coursing to  Anne  on  cruciform  insignia.  The  cross  was 
a  secret  masonic  mark  and  every  age  had  been  banned 
or  blessed  by  its  taste  in  holy  roods.  Thus  the  present 
age  was  paltry,  because  we  are  all  nailed  to  such  tawdry 
crosses. 

Anne  agreed  heartily;  with  feminine  taste  for  detail 
she  applied  this  to  herself,  since  Sara  had  gone  to  Lon- 
don and  left  her  to  drive  this  chariot  of  senility.  Other- 
wise she  was  non-committal;  politely  jesting  of  course, 
she  replied  to  Uncle  Pip 's  questions  with  the  self-evident 
truth  that  "Those  who  live  longest  will  see  most." 


294  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Thereupon  he  sought  out  Elizabeth,  much  as  the  an- 
cients turned  from  the  processes  of  reasoning  to  the 
decree  of  the  oracle.  He  found  her  with  elbows  in  a 
basin  of  suds,  washing  lace.  Plunging  her  arms  in 
soapy  water  to  the  elbow  she  leant  on  her  wrists. 

"What  will  you?"  said  she  at  last.  "Voila,  Mon- 
sieur, Madame  is  a  woman ;  Monsieur  did  not  know  that, 
perhaps?"  asked  she  ironically. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Elizabeth?" 

"Mean!  mean!  mean!"  she  shrilled,  putting  her  face 
closer  to  his  with  every  word.  "Hath  not  a  woman  a 
heart  to  be  filled,  hands  to  be  held  ?  See  her  two  nights 
ago.  I  hold  up  the  lamp  over  her,  she  in  her  robe  de 
cliambre.  Eyes  bright,  breast  heaving,  heart  aching.  / 
know.  And  t'other  side  of  the  world  a  man  that  cares. " 

"And  if  that  is  all  she  is — a  light  woman,"  said  he 
sadly.  "Ah,  Sara,  my  dear,  my  dear." 

L  'Esprit  Gaulois  leapt,  eyes  flashed,  fingers  snapped. 

"And  thou,  thou,  thou,  art  the  first  hell-hound  to  bay 
at  her  heels.  Bah!  So,  Monsieur.  Take  the  truth." 
She  held  up  a  sodden  finger  and  thumb  and  drew  them 
together  in  a  circle.  ' '  That  is  Madame 's  life,  caught  in 
a  trap  between  young  man  and  old.  But  Madame  slip 
away  at  last,  run,  fly — skedaddle.  What  will  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Good  God ! ' '  exclaimed  Uncle  Pip  and  hurried  away 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

But  she  was  in  town  and  so,  praying  that  Sara  might 
be  with  her,  he  followed  in  pursuit.  The  snouted  hor- 
rors of  his  dream,  the  primeval  horrors  born  of  apple- 
fumes,  were  the  jungle  beasts  of  scandal  in  his  fancy 
now.  To  Anne,  before  he  went,  he  raged  like  a  bear  that 
stands  in  need  of  hanging.  But  all  she  did  was  to  look 
straight  in  his  eyes,  saying  simply : 

* '  Don 't  weigh  Sara 's  acts  with  false  balances  and  old- 
world  scales,  Uncle  Pip.  I  trust  her.  Do  you  do  the 
same. ' ' 

But  he  could  not.      Torn  to  his  depths  by  love  of  her 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  295 

and  reverence  for  her  womanhood,  he  failed  there.  For 
he  would  have  had  her  bear  physical  degradation  rather 
than  tarnish  her  soul's  purity.  And  of  that  there  was 
no  question  with  Archer. 

In  Mrs.  Knyvett 's  drawing-room  at  Hampstead  with 
its  white  walls  dappled  with  lights  and  shades  from  the 
old  trees  that  looked  in  at  the  rounded  Georgian  win- 
dows, he  paced  up  and  down.  Overhead  the  ceiling 
shook  with  hurried  footsteps  and  presently  they  fetched 
him  upstairs.  There,  with  the  French  windows  wide 
open  on  to  the  balcony  he  found  Mrs.  Knyvett  on 
her  couch,  with  a  strap  hanging  from  the  ceiling  above 
it. 

"Lumbago!"  she  explained.  "I've  been  ironed  and 
I've  been  massaged,  but  I'm  held  by  the  hip  all  the 
same. ' ' 

Had  she  been  a  Catholic,  she  would  have  set  up  a 
votive  offering  to  that  lumbago  in  every  church  in  the 
diocese,  so  opportune  had  it  proved.  And  now,  though 
the  agony  was  less,  she  still  lay  and  blinked  at  the  ceil- 
ing, the  cornices  of  which,  by  the  way,  were  decorated 
with  cupids.  Uncle  Pip,  as  he  looked  at  the  pink  quilt, 
thought  of  a  biblical  personage  of  the  Seven  Hills. 
The  Nation  and  the  Spectator  fell  off  her  knees  as  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Never  the  dock  without  the  nettle,  you  see,"  she 
smiled  as  he  picked  them  up. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  "yes,  I've  news." 

She  held  out  a  flimsy  paper  to  him  and  he  took  it  with 
hands  that  shook.  It  was  a  cipher  cable  with  the  read- 
ing by  its  side.  Billy  Knyvett  had  been  carried  ashore 
at  Punta  Arenas,  ill.  There  was  a  later  one:  he  was 
slightly  better,  but  ill  of  fever  following  chill.  Both 
were  signed  Westlake. 

"Sara  sailed  by  the  mail  to-day  to  join  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Knyvett  gently. 

Trembling  like  a  very  old  man  he  sat  down.     Some- 


296  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

how  it  was  going  home  to  tell  his  wife  that  seemed  th« 
worst  thing  to  face. 

"Not  Sara,"  he  said.     "Surely  not  my  niece,  Sara?" 

"Yes,  Sara." 

He  treddled  with  his  feet  on  the  floor.  He  saw  her  as 
a  little  child  playing  with  the  collies  in  the  yard. 

' '  You  might  have  stopped  it.     You  might  have  gone. ' ' 

"I  wanted  her  to  go.  I  wanted  my  son's  life  to  be 
fulfilled.  I  swore  they  shouldn't  skulk  any  longer. 
Neither  of  them." 

"To  sacrifice  her  like  that!  To  ask  her — but  there's 
no  use  in  talking." 

"And  haven't  I  flung  away  something  for  Billy?  Is 
he  the  sort  of  man  to  be  co-respondent  in  a  divorce 
suit?" 

"No,  no.     An  honourable  man." 

"And  she's  an  honourable  woman.  Do  you  think  she 
can 't  carry  her  purity  through  the  fire  of  a  court  of  law 
as  they  say  the  friars  carried  the  Sacred  Host  in  the 
days  when  there  was  faith  on  the  earth  ?  Look  you ;  the 
law  comes  from  us,  from  men  and  women.  It  didn't 
tumble  down  out  of  heaven.  When  a  marriage  bond  is 
a  living  lie,  a  lie  that  degrades  both  man  and  woman, 
then  it  must  be  torn  asunder.  I  tell  you,  she  would  have 
borne  her  starvation  all  her  life  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Archer.  Yes,  for  her  husband.  He  was  becoming  more 
degraded,  more  futile,  every  day." 

She  paused,  out  of  breath.  "That  was  the  way  of 
it,"  she  said,  coughing. 

"How  will  it  better  Archer?" 

"He'll  divorce  her.  She  forces  him  to  it.  He'll  find 
a  mate,  a  true  one.  He's  made  all  in  one  piece  like  a 
woman.  One  lie  in  his  life  and  he  feels  spoilt,  ruined, 
dirty.  Oh,  I  had  it  all  out  with  her.  She  sat  there 
where  you  are,  struggling,  beating  her  wings  like  a  but- 
terfly in  a  net.  She  thought  of  everyone  but  herself; 
of  Archer's  house  built  on  sand;  of  Billy's  chance  of 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  297 

public  life  gone.  I  tell  you  she'd  have  gone  more  will- 
ingly to  gaol  than  to  my  son's  arms,  the  sweet  Puritan. 
Suffering  she  could  understand,  could  bear,  but  the  suf- 
fering that  came  with  passion  was  a  stain." 

"You  think  so?  You're  not  telling  me  this  to  com- 
fort me,  stuffing  me  with  lies  ? ' ' 

"I'm  telling  you  the  simple  truth,  Philip  Hawkins. 
And  all  the  while  my  boy 's  perhaps  dying  over  there. ' ' 

Her  face  worked  and  Uncle  Pip's  brain  was  reeling. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  said  he  at  last,  "thank  heaven  I  had  my 
romance  before  this  century.  To  run  away  with  another 
man  because  you  love  your  husband!" 

"Love!"  snapped  Mrs.  Knyvett.  "What  does  that 
mean  ?  As  many  different  things  as  there  are  men  and 
women.  And  marriage!  Good  lack,  the  best  marriage 
is  the  one  that  promises  the  best  births.  And  I  don't 
use  the  word  in  the  physical  sense  only.  But  I  put  my 
money  on  what  your  niece  and  my  son  will  give  the 
world.  Though  I  don't  mean  babies — only." 

"Madame,"  said  he  sadly,  "what  you  mean  is  quite 
beyond  me.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  standing  for 
twenty-four  hours  on  a  steam  thresher. ' ' 

When  he  was  gone  she  lay  back  and  wept. 

"Oh,  Billy,  Billy,  have  I  done  right?  or  have  I  in- 
jured you?  My  dear  son,  my  dear,  dear  son." 

All  her  life  she  had  been  of  the  company  of  free  souls, 
jpf  those  who  go  on  long  voyages  seeking  fresh  horizons. 
Onward  into  uncharted  seas,  she  pushed  with  the 
younger  generations  pressing  on  her  heels.  Hard 
enough  is  this  task  for  scientist  or  thinker;  but  far 
harder  is  it  to  fling  into  the  crucible  of  change  the 
tables  of  the  law,  to  recognise  them,  not  as  made  of 
stone,  but  of  metal  that  can  be  recast.  All  her  fifty- 
eight  years  rose  to  crush  her  courage  that  night  while 
Uncle  Pip  was  travelling  westward  once  more. 

In  the  morning  Aunt  Hatty  received  him  with  tea  and 
comfort.  She  would  have  added  a  footstool  but  he 


298  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

damned  it  furiously  and  told  her  not  to  fuss.  Then  the 
story  came  out. 

' '  Well,  my  dear, ' '  said  she,  "  I  'd  not  fret  my  gizzard, 
if  I  were  you.  Just  think  what  we  should  have  felt  if 
anybody  had  come  between  us  fifty  year  agone.  And  if 
you  can't  rest  nor  sleep  till  you've  got  the  particular 
thing  you're  set  on,  I  reckon  it's  a  sign  the  Lord  meant 
you  to  have  it." 

' '  But  her  good  name ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"She'll  value  it  the  more  when  she  gets  it  back. 
That's  the  only  way  for  a  woman  to  learn  the  vally  of 
anything.  I'm  sure  I  never  knew  what  a  treasure  that 
new  wringer  was  till  that  silly  maid  we  had  last  year 
went  and  broke  it." 

' '  Good  God,  Hatty !  Isn  't  there  a  sense  of  great  and 
small  in  women's  minds?  'Wringers  and  reputations/ 
saith  she." 

"Now,  my  dear,  if  you  were  up  against  this — that 
you'd  either  got  to  set  folks  talking  by  doing  what 
seemed  the  right  thing,  or  keep  'em  quiet  by  sticking  to 
the  wrong,  what  would  you  choose  ? ' ' 

"Doing  the  right  thing!  But  it's  the  whole  moral 
code  for  women,  the  Decalogue,  that  you're  calling  in 
question,  Hatty." 

' '  Naught  but  a  malkin  set  up  by  the  men  folk  to  scare 
the  crows  off  women,  Pip.  'Tis  but  a  thing  of  sticks 
and  rags.  And  we're  beginning  to  know  it.  T'other 
day  I  saw  a  scarecrow  where  a  bird  had  built  its  nest  in 
the  arm.  'Tis  but  a  sham,  after  all.  And  that's  a  fact. 
Birds  and  women  have  got  a  wonderful  taste  for  the 
real  thing,  Pip." 

"When  I  hear  you  talk  like  this,  Hatty,  I'm  thankful 
you  never  had  a  daughter.  Thankful." 

"And  I  might  as  well  have  had  one,  if  you're  going 
on  worrying  about  Sara  as  if  she  was  your  own,"  re- 
torted she.  "But  there's  no  sense  nor  reason  in  men. 


THE  SLEEPING  LADY  299 

If  the  Almighty  had  meant  you  to  have  the  worrit  of  a 
daughter,  he'd  have  given  you  one,  wouldn't  he?" 

He  was  out  of  earshot.  But  weeks  elapsed  before  he 
turned  the  apples  in  the  garret.  His  experience  there 
had  fully  convinced  him  of  what  he  had  suspected  be- 
fore— the  indecency  of  poring  beneath  the  surface. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    POOL    OP    QUALITY;    IN    THIS    BILLY    PIPES    AND    SABA 

DANCES 

MEANWHILE  time  and  space,  factors  overlooked 
in  Mrs.  Knyvett's  calculations,  were  placing  Sara 
in  a  distinctly  humorous  situation.  For,  as  proved  by 
Peter's  cables,  Billy  was  rapidly  on  the  way  to  recovery 
and  standing  in  no  need  whatever  of  the  ministrations  of 
any  lady  with  the  lamp. 

Yet  Sara  did  not  care,  for  she  was  learning  the  taste 
of  freedom;  always  before  she  had  seen  the  world 
through  a  fog  of  relatives.  Now  the  width  of  it,  as  she 
walked  the  deck  of  the  mail-boat  unfettered  at  last,  was 
sufficient  consolation  for  that  terror  of  a  lost  reputation 
which  apparently  places  the  heart  in  the  pit  of  the  stom- 
ach. A  handful  of  folk  in  tradition-ridden  England 
might  condemn  her,  but  were  there  not  Scotch  settlers 
in  the  Falkland  Isles  making  a  living  out  of  sheep  pas- 
tured on  tussock-grass  ?  Even  the  sight  of  her  husband 's 
books  in  the  ship 's  library  brought  a  smile,  for  she  had 
been  in  contact  with  an  interesting  personality;  at  this 
distance  the  peccadilloes  of  'the  knave  of  hearts'  were 
amusing.  It  was  her  father's  selfishness  that  left  the 
deepest  mark;  she  recalled  it  with  a  stinging  blush  as 
one  may  a  personal  solecism,  for  our  relatives  are  near 
enough  to  us  to  insult  our  self-love  by  the  exhibition  they 
make  of  themselves  before  the  world,  but  not  near  enough 
to  glorify  us  by  their  achievements ;  thorns  in  the  flesh, 
not  feathers  in  the  cap,  they  may  curse  but  not  bless. 

But  the  sea  had  its  way  with  her ;  she  was  the  better 

300 


301 


able  to  read  between  the  lines  of  Peter's  letter  which, 
awaited  her  at  Bio: — 

"Before  we  sighted  Cape  Virgins  Billy  fell  ill.  I 
knew  it,  Cole  knew  it,  but  he  wouldn't  give  in.  For, 
except  Bodinar,  there  wasn't  a  man  aboard  to  take  the 
vessel  up  the  Straits — but  him.  And  Bodinar  was 
mostly  drunk.  Of  course  he  ought  to  have  been  in  irons, 
would  have  been  anywhere  but  on  the  Pendragon.  But 
— that's  just  Billy,  you  know.  He'll  never  force  an  easy 
way  for  himself.  If  it  comes,  well  and  good,  but  if  it 
doesn't,  it  may  stay  away  and  be  damned  to  it.  Put 
him  up  slick  against  a  wall  that  he's  got  to  get  through 
and  he'll  never  loosen  a  brick  of  it.  He'll  only  ram 
with  his  head  and  either  break  it — or  his  own  skull. ' ' 

Sara  laughed,  remembering  a  Knyvett  ancestor  who 
had  died  in  the  Inquisition  rather  than  confess  himself 
— what  he  was — a  Catholic,  preferring  to  go  to  the  stake 
rather  than  be  forced  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Off  the  Virgins,"  continued  Peter,  "whitish  grey 
cliffs  and  seals  playing  in  the  surf,  all  as  peaceful  as  a 
Sunday  School.  Anchored  there.  And  then  the  wind 
shifted  and  drove  us  southwards.  That's  my  notion  of 
hell  now — tacking,  always  tacking,  while  you  wait  for 
the  slant  that's  to  carry  you  up  the  neck  of  a  bottle. 
We  saw  the  ice-blink — and  got  pretty  near  the  ice  in 
field.  Those  are  times  when  you  can  feel  danger.  Day 
after  day  it  went  on  and  Billy  getting  more  and  more 
like  a  death's  head.  And  never  so  much  as  a  cat's-paw 
to  show  a  flaw  in  the  wind. 

"My  God! 

"  Billy 'd  locked  his  clinical  thermometer  in  his  cabin 
drawer,  I  found.  Better  not  know  where  you  are,  I 
suppose.  And  always  between  him  and  the  green  seas 
aft  a  great  rolling  globe.  Talked  of  it,  he  did,  after- 
wards in  delirium. 

"At  last  it  came :  'all  hands  stand  by  to  wear  ship, '  and 
we  rode  her  in  on  the  flood  and  at  change  of  the  moon. 


302  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Kelp  at  Cape  Possession,  ruffling  the  sea  like  a  shoal  of 
under-water  porpoises.  Tide  like  a  race  in  the  First  Nar- 
rows. See  us  pully-hauling  yards  at  the  daybreak.  Ho 
— io — io !  Billy  crowded  on  the  canvas  till  Cole  damned 
his  eyes.  Anchored  in  Gregory  Bay.  Out  again,  but 
driven  back  to  our  moorings.  Then  the  Second  Narrows, 
sighted  Cape  Negro  and  dropped  anchor  in  Laredo  Bay. 
Sealers  there.  Got  a  pilot,  a  lean,  hungry  chap. 

"  'Chilianos?'  "  said  I  to  him,  when  he  boarded  us 
from  the  Mary  Rose. 

"  'No  damn  fear!'  says  he,  and  I  found  he  was  a 
Norwegian.  By  that  time  we  'd  to  hold  Billy  in  his  berth 
and  we  came  into  Sandy  Point  as  they'd  seen  many  a 
vessel  before,  Irish  pennants  everywhere,  fore  tops'le  in 
ribbons  and  Bodinar  dazed — been  on  the  bend  for  a  week. 
Billy  doesn't  know,  but  the  tug  from  Glasgow's  a  dere- 
lict. Bodinar  let  her  stave  her  side  in  and  left  her  leak- 
ing like  a  sieve,  for  he  'd  never  caulked  her  seams,  though 
he'd  got  enough  marine  glue  to  stop  the  leaks  of  an 
old  three-decker.  Done  purposely,  of  course.  Bodinar 
doesn't  want  to  go  up  Smyth's  Channel — or  to  put  his 
nose  into  Coronel.  We've  got  to  watch  him  day  and 
night,  or  he'd  give  us  the  slip,  or  put  a  knife  into  us  in 
the  good  old  way. 

"Billy's  betwixt  and  between  now — as  to  health. 
Therefore  we've  not  told  him  yet  that  you're  coming. 
He  mustn  't  be  jolted. ' ' 

Sara  laid  down  the  letter;  she  was,  it  appeared,  com- 
ing at  the  wrong  time.  Yet  she  could  not  turn  back  now. 
And  two  days  later  the  mail-boat  entered  the  roadstead 
of  Punta  Arenas. 

Catboats  and  schooners  strained  at  their  moorings 
against  the  tug  of  a  sou 'westerly  gale.  The  furrows  in 
the  wake  of  moving  vessels,  the  sun-dappled  waves  and 
ruffling  winds  were  quivering  incessantly  behind  the 
black  derrick-arms  of  the  liners  loading  wool  from  the 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  303 

hulksi  in  the  offing.     Faint,  clear,  and  infinitely  remote, 
hung  in  air  the  blue  peaks  of  the  Cordilleras. 

The  street  of  cobblestones  by  the  landing-stage,  the 
wood  and  iron  of  the  two-storeyed  Kosmos  Hotel,  the 
long  passage  piled  with  luggage,  the  courtyard  at 
the  side,  black  in  mud  and  dotted  with  ducks,  poultry 
and  horses:  these  things  seemed  to  Sara  an  interminable 
nightmare,  like  the  winding  labyrinths  of  a  dream.  She 
stopped  before  the  parrot's  cage  in  the  passage  and  stood 
holding  up  her  fingers  to  allure  the  sidling  bird,  as 
though  she  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  to  play  with  a  par- 
rot. Peter  humoured  her  pretence. 

"He  swears  in  German,  Spanish  and  English,"  said  he. 

But  Sara  was  only  listening  to  the  blood  in  her  veins ; 
her  pulses  thudded  now  like  race-horse  hoofs  on  the  sand. 

"He  knows  I'm  here?"  she  asked,  nodding  towards 
Billy's  door. 

"We  told  him  yesterday,"  said  Peter. 

The  air  was  growing  dark  and  presently  across  the 
sky  of  the  courtyard  a  few  flakes  of  snow  fluttered  slowly. 
But  still  Sara  stood  nursing  her  finger  where  the  bird 
had  nipped  her.  At  last  Peter  moved,  opened  the  door 
to  the  left  and  with  his  hand  under  her  elbow,  half 
lifted  her  across  the  threshold. 

Films  of  dreams,  instead  of  the  hotel  furniture,  seemed 
to  crowd  the  room.  Like  the  distant  tolling  of  a  bell- 
buoy  across  the  water  she  heard  the  blood  ringing  in 
her  ears.  His  voice  awoke  her. 

"Sara,  Sara,  it  is  you?"  he  cried,  holding  out  his 
hands. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side,  but  in  an  instant's  flash 
she  knew  that  this  was  not  the  man  she  had  come  to  meet. 

"Billy!"  she  exclaimed  wonderingly. 

He  smiled  and  then  her  words  came  tumbling  out  like 
pebbles  from  a  shaken  bag.  "You  were  ill.  Mrs. 
Knyvett  could  not  come.  So  she — sent  me." 


304  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

' '  '  A  providential  attack, '  she  calls  it, ' '  he  smiled,  ' '  in 
her  letter — which  I've  only  just  seen,  by  the  way." 

"Let's  pretend,"  she  said  suddenly,  "let's  pretend  it's 
just  a  tea-party  and  not  a  life  and  death  thing." 

"Put  your  head  in  a  bag  and  say  you  can't  be  seen? 
No,  Sara,  I  can't  do  that." 

Then,  with  a  flash  of  the  eyes,  he  took  it  all  in;  the 
grey  shimmer  of  the  trailing  gown  she  had  insisted  on 
staying  to  put  on,  much  to  Peter 's  surprise,  the  new  cur- 
rent of  life  she  brought  with  her.  Her  spirits,  answer- 
ing his,  went  up  with  a  bound. 

' '  You  dear, ' '  she  cried  suddenly  and  embarrassed  him 
terribly,  for  the  waiter  had  entered  the  room  with  a  tea- 
tray. 

After  tea  she  sat  leaning  back  in  her  chair  watching 
the  snowflakes  that  fluttered  white  for  a  second  across 
the  wdndow  and  vanished  on  the  other  side.  Over  what 
leagues  of  sea  and  tempest-torn  hills  had  they  not  passed 
to  reach  this  lighted  space?  On  an  errand  that  seemed 
as  fruitless  as  her  own,  for  she  was  vainly  trying  to 
force  her  way  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  mind. 
And  all  the  time  there  sang  in  her  ears,  the  rhyme : — 

"There  was  a  fleet  that  went  to  Spain, 
When  it  got  there,  it  came  back  again." 

Still  the  wordless  battle  went  on,  she  praying  for  en-, 
trance,  he  as  constantly  refusing.  At  last,  noisily  draw- 
ing back  the  window  curtains  on  their  rings,  he  tore  one 
and  swore.  Sara  turned,  but  he  avoided  her  glance  and 
sat  watching  the  smoke  rise  from  his  cigarette.  He  was 
wishing  he  knew  her  as  well  as,  say,  Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways  or  Sue  Bridehead.  But  one  never  knows  a  living 
woman  like  that.  For  women  are  like  the  earth;  they 
only  yield  their  secrets  to  the  masters. 

Suddenly  she  sighed;  the  sound  broke  something  hard 
in  him  and  his  arms  closed  round  her.  So  they  held  each 
other,  passing  away  together  into  the  depths  where  two 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  305 

seek  to  become  one.  When  lie  placed  a  hand  on  her 
breast,  she  held  it  there,  and  when  she  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  he  knelt  beside  her.  She  laughed  and  set  a  seal 
of  kisses  on  his  bent  neck.  Billy  listened  to  the  sound 
as  one  awaking  from  a  nightmare  may  revel  in  the 
homely  tinkling  of  the  breakfast  cups. 

"Billy,  Billy,"  she  exclaimed,  "let  me  into  your 
mind, ' '  and  thus  unconsciously  made  the  great  confession 
that  passion  is  but  the  striving  of  two  imprisoned  souls. 
"Oh,  Billy,  don't  be  so  hard  to  me." 

She  all  but  shook  him  in  her  energy. 

"It  does  hurt  you  so  to  speak,  doesn't  it?"  said  she. 
"What  is  it  now?  Is  it  a  new  version  of  'I  could  not 
love  thee,  dear,  so  much'?  Is  it  Lovelace  come  to  life 
again  ? ' ' 

So  she  pelted  him  with  words,  hating  herself  the  while 
and  despising  him  for  parochial  morality.  How  extraor- 
dinary it  was  that  an  intelligent  man  should  be  so  con- 
ventional as  to  be  bound  by  a  merely  national  code  of 
morality.  Why,  if  he  had  been  an  American — anger 
blazed  in  her  suddenly,  for  her  emotional  temperature 
was  going  up.  She  felt  like  a  total  abstainer  with  a 
thimbleful  inside  him.  She  had  set  out  to  lose  the  world 
for  him — and  he  treated  her  like  a  Magdalen.  The 
harsh  word  pleased  her  immensely.  She  felt  like  a  fakir 
throwing  the  lash  across  his  own  shoulders. 

"Is  it  the  shadowy  third?"  she  asked.  It  was  aston- 
ishing how  under  his  silence  the  spirit  of  the  catechist 
arose  in  her. 

"The  shadowy  third?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes;  the  people  you're  thinking  of  who  might  follow 
our  example.  For  no  Englishman  is  ever  moral  for  his 
own  sake.  It's  always  for  somebody  else.  He  wouldn't 
do  as  he  liked,  not  even  on  a  desert  island.  For  the 
sake  of  the  birds  and  the  fishes,  you  know.  That's  what 
Archer  always  says." 

At  the  mention  of  Bellew  his  face  changed. 


306  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"Oh,  Archer  isn't  the  shadowy  third,"  she  exclaimed. 
' '  Couldn  't  be,  because  it  was  for  his  sake  I — bolted. ' ' 

She  held  her  head  up.  "No,  don't  imagine  that  you 
have  a  monopoly  of  conscience.  For  I  can  assure  you  I 
shouldn  't  be  here  if  I  saw  the  faintest  bit  of  wrong  in  it. 
But  you — your  manner  is  detestable." 

"I  knew  you  had  a  temper,  but — " 

"Billy,  how  can  you?  When  I've  come  and  it  cost  me 
so  much — " 

"But  just  now  you  said  it  didn't  cost  you — " 

"You  are  perfectly  insufferable.  I  don't  know  you, 
I've  never  seen  you  before,"  she  cried. 

"Come  here,  Sara,"  he  said,  catching  her  hands  and 
pulling  her  up  to  him,  while  her  eyelids  fluttered,  tears 
fell  and  lips  worked,  ' '  don 't  be  a  damn  fool. ' ' 

He  bent  forward  and  stopped  her  lips  with  his  own. 

"That's  better,"  he  said,  when  she  snuffled,  sobbed 
and  finally  hid  her  face.  He  congratulated  himself  on 
his  skill  in  surgery  as  he  contemplated  the  back  of  her 
head. 

"Comfy?"  he  asked. 

A  nod  answered  him.     She  looked  up  suddenly. 

' '  There ! ' '  she  exclaimed,  ' '  I  knew  it.  I  knew  you 
were  smiling  in  a  highly  superior  manner.  I  saw  a  vi- 
sion of  the  corners  of  your  lips.  Don 't !  don 't. ' ' 

His  smile  broadened. 

"It's  so  deadly  serious,"  she  cried. 

"By  Jove,  it  is,"  said  he.  "You  know  you  oughtn't 
to  be  here  at  all,  Sara. ' ' 

Anger  darted  again.  "Then  let  me  go,"  she  cried, 
struggling. 

' '  Stop  it, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  know  I  want  you,  want  you, 
want  you. ' ' 

Much  comforted,  she  relapsed  with  a  sigh;  after  all, 
he  had,  as  a  divine  would  have  put  it,  the  roots  of  the 
matter  in  him. 

"Why  were  you  so  queer  when  I  came?"  she  asked  at 


307 

length.  With  his  pipe  alit,  he  sat,  teeth  gripping  it, 
gazing  over  her  head  into  space. 

"Because,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  wanted  you  to  come 
to  a  man  worth  coming  to.  I'm  not,  at  present.  I've 
been  a  slacker,  a  hopeless  slacker.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  what 
was  at  the  back  of  my  mother 's  brain.  She  thought  that 
if  I  got  this  job  of  ours  over  I'd  settle  down  to  the  real 
business  of  life. ' ' 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  sitting  up. 

"See  here,  it's  like  this,"  he  answered,  "a  man  who 
loves  a  woman,  Sara,  wants  her  to  have  the  best  he  can 
give.  Wants  her  to  come  to  him  without  a  shadow. ' ' 

' '  There  is  no  shadow — not  in  my  mind. ' ' 

"But  there  is  in  mine.  There  is  more  than  a  shadow 
over  it  all.  Would  you  have  acted  as  you  have  if  you 
had  not  been  rushed  into  it  ?  First  there  was  my  illness 
and  your  fear  of  what  might  be  happening  to  me.  Ever 
since  I  knew  you  were  coming  I've  thought  of  nothing 
else." 

She  freed  herself  and,  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
tried  to  face  the  facts.  At  first  only  his  egotism  struck 
her.  How  could  she1  go  back?  What  construction  would 
her  world  put  on  it  all?  Of  that  apparently  he  never 
thought,  nor  would  she  remind  him  of  it,  for  if  a  man 
will  only  take  a  woman  on  the  highest  terms  conceivable 
to  him,  why,  then  she  must  crane  her  neck  to  look  up  at 
him.  Yet  she  almost  longed  for  the  days  when  a  man's 
relationship  with  a  woman  was  not  so  much  stuff  o'  the 
conscience  with  him,  when  she  was  just  the  part  of  his 
life  he  put  outside  when  the  work  began.  She  regretted, 
for  a  second,  the  gay  lovers  among  the  great  men  who 
carved  out  the  future,  men  who  loved  and  forgot  their 
women  as  easily  as  they  flung  aside  their  coats.  It  is 
still  the  Latin  way  to-day,  where  love  is  pleasure  and 
marriage  as  much  a  concession  to  custom  as  cards  on  the 
jour  de  Van. 


308  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Yet  he  must  be  made  to  see  her  view. 

"Long  ago,"  she  said,  threading  her  fingers  together 
and  looking  down  on  them, ' '  I  knew  a  woman  whose  hus- 
band was  unfaithful  to  her.  Again  and  again  she  for- 
gave him  and  took  him  back.  And  she  did  right,  for 
she  shared  his  thoughts,  all  the  best  of  him.  It  was  only 
the  lowest  that  he  gave  to — those  others. ' ' 

"But  what  about  'those  others'?  How  did  it  affect 
them?" 

"I  don't  know.     Nobody  does,  you  see." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"When  soul  and  spirit  are  one,  body  doesn't  matter. 
I've  never  been  Archer's  like  that.  Never.  So  I've 
never  been  his  wife  at  all.  Ceremony!  What's  cere- 
mony got  to  do  with  it?  What  ceremony  can  fuse  two 
metals  that  no  chemical  power  can  join?  No.  It's  the 
burning  together  that  does  it.  I've  never  been  his  wife. 
I'm  free.  Before  ever  he — what  they  call,  married  me, 
he'd  shared  his  best  with  another  woman.  She  loved 
him.  She  cared,  she  has  watched  him,  her  thoughts  have 
been  busy  with  him  all  these  years.  And  he?  What 
were  his  words?  'I've  never  seen  another  woman  as  I 
saw  her'?" 

It  was  a  queer  confession,  but  to  the  martyr  in  his 
ecstasy  even  cross-making  seems  a  branch  of  celestial 
carpentry. 

"But  to  you  this  is  all  wrong.  And  every  touch  just 
now  was — wicked.  Yet  all  these  years  I've  trusted  you, 
felt  I  only  had  to  come  and  you  would  be  ready  for  me. 
But  all  the  time  I  've  been  mistaken,  it  seems. ' ' 

"That  isn't  true,  Sara,  and  you  know  it.  But  what 
you  have  told  me  only  makes  it  the  more  impossible. 
You  acted  out  of  hatred,  repulsion — perhaps  momen- 
tary." 

"You're  making  it  hard  for  me  to  forgive  you,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice. 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  309 

Beaten,  thrown  back  on  herself,  she  wondered  if  she 
could  face — England.  Hatred  seized  her  for  the  man 
who  put  her  to  this  test  of  strength. 

"I'm  very  tired,"  she  said,  "I  think  I'll  go  to  my 
room. ' ' 

"But  you  understand  me?" 

' '  Thoroughly, ' '  she  said,  ' '  though  you  've  set  me  rather 
a  hard  problem." 

She  laughed  and  he  looked  doubtful — as  well  he  might. 
She  felt,  indeed,  that  in  his  day  he  must  have  eaten 
husks  with  the  Gadarenes  and  paid  his  worship  to  the 
god  of  the  earth  that  dwells  in  dark  places;  he  was  so 
afraid  of  shadows.  It  was  the  queer  kinship  of  high 
passion  and  low  hunger  that  made  him  scent  a  weakness. 

Or  so  she  read  him.  But  at  any  rate  his  standard  of 
honour  should  be  kept  up,  though  she  had  to  nail  it  to 
her  own  good  name,  for  this  refusal  of  the  easy  way 
was  as  inbred  in  him  as  a  pointer's  method  of  earning  a 
livelihood. 

In  her  own  room  the  title  of  her  husband's  last  book 
flashed  into  her  mind;  was  she  not  "between  two  servi- 
tudes ' '  ?  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been  independent. 
Before  marriage  she  had  been  her  father's  tool  and  now 
— think  as  she  would  of  Billy's  scruples,  judge  them 
noble  as  she  did,  was  he  not  treating  her  as  a  thing  for 
whom  decisions  must  be  made?  And  was  he  not  right, 
for  had  she  not  shown  her  inability  to  stand  alone  ? 

The  question  answered  itself;  Billy  had  judged  like  a 
free  man.  But  she  had  not.  Flying  from  one  man  to 
the  other,  she  was  tossed  like  a  shuttlecock.  His  ideal- 
ism was  the  fruit  of  freedom.  Her  idealism  had  never 
been  born,  for  she  had  never  been  free. 

Softly  she  widened  the  space  between  the  doors.  Neat, 
fresh,  intent,  he  came  out  of  his  room  and  glanced  in 
her  direction,  though  he  could  not  tell  that  she  was 
watching  him.  So  they  stood  with  a  barrier  of  austerity 
between  them;  she  caught  her  breath  in  a  sob  and  the 


310  WINGS  OP  DESIRE 

hungry  years  fed  on  her  heart.  Then  his  eyes  shifted 
downwards  to  the  writing-table  and  half  absently  sitting 
down,  he  took  up  a  flimsy  sheet  of  paper,  cable  or  tele- 
gram evidently.  Presently  he  unfolded  a  map  and  bend- 
ing over  it,  traced  a  line  with  a  pencil.  She  could  only 
see  the  top  of  his  head.  What  was  it  that  engrossed 
him? 

The  rustle  of  her  dress  betrayed  her.  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  draw  her  towards  him. 

1 '  Do  you  know  what  this  is  ? "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"One  of  the  most  wonderful  things  in  the  world — a 
plan  of  the  great  West  Coast  railway,  the  zigzag  line 
that  carries  trains  right  across  the  Andes  up  into  the  line 
of  eternal  snows. ' ' 

Then  in  a  torrent  of  eager  words  he  spoke  of  in- 
clines, gradients,  of  mountainous  peaks  of  debris  piled 
by  the  Incas  in  their  irrigation  works,  of  the  line  that 
was  to  open  up  the  mines  of  Peru,  the  nitrates  of  Chili. 
"A  man's  fallen  ill,  one  of  the  engineers,"  he  said  with 
a  jerk.  * '  They  've  asked  me  to  slip  into  his  place. ' ' 

There  was  an  implied  question  in  his  tone. 

"You  will  accept,"  she  said  confidently.  For  she  was 
minded  not  always  to  remain  between  two  servitudes. 

"Dearest,  dearest,"  he  cried,  looking  up  at  her.  The 
words  sounded  like  thanks  and  that  hurt  her  more  than 
anything.  Their  two  minds  had  gone  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, had  questioned  one  another — and  brought  back  the 
answer.  She  would  not  hinder  his  work. 

Then  Peter  came  in  to  dinner.  Sara  watched  him 
curiously ;  brown  and  lean  as  he  was,  even  the  loose  grey 
shirt,  the  easy  gestures  of  his  body  made  him  seem 
another  man.  He  had  kicked  himself  free,  as  she  must 
do.  But  after  all  he  had  only  been  fettered  by  civilisa- 
tion ;  she  was  in  thrall  to  a  deeper  bondage. 

He  began  to  talk  of  Anne. 

"We'll  not  go  into  a  church,"  said  he  with  a  twinkle, 


311 


"where  she'll  have  to  tell  a  lie.  Anne!  Fancy  Anne 
obeying  me !  Why  should  she  ?  You  know  in  this  mat- 
ter of  mating  we've  gone  further  on  the  wrong  road  than 
in  any  other  single  human  venture.  And  it's  bed- 
rock, mating  is.  But  what  we've  got  to  learn  is  that 
marriage  was  made  for  man  and  woman,  not  woman 
and  man  for  marriage.  That's  about  the  size  of  it,  I 
opine.  And  any  church  that  goes  about  saying,  as  a 
bishop  did  t'other  day,  that  a  woman  mustn't  be  re- 
leased from  marriage  though  her  husband  drive  her  to 
the  streets — " 

"Had  better  put  its  shutters  up,"  chimed  in  Billy. 
"But  the  English  are  afraid  to  think.  They've  been  so 
long  in  blind,  unquestioning  obedience  to  a  Book.  It'll 
take  'em  a  long  time  to  recover  from  the  injury  they've 
done  to  their  brain." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "an  Englishman  with  the  Bible 
inbred  in  him — or  rather  what  he  imagines  is  the  Bible 
— always  looks  at  a  new  idea  as  though  it  were  a  demon 
come  hot  from  hell." 

"For,"  added  Billy,  "the  strongest  things  in  a  man 
are  the  instincts  that  come  down  to  him  from  his  an- 
cestors' graves." 

Suddenly  Sara  was  afraid,  since  from  the  graves  of 
her  ancestors  had  sprung  an  instinct.  Neither  man,  she 
fancied,  would  have  talked  thus  freely  before  her  had 
she  remained  a  conventional  woman.  She  was  afraid  of 
freedom.  Even  the  way  in  which  Peter  moved,  threw 
his  limbs  about,  puffed  smoke  through  his  nose  offended 
her;  she  felt  inadequately  clothed  for  hill  air. 

It  was  absurd ;  but  no  beliefs  are  stronger  than  those 
for  which  there  is  not  a  jot  of  proof — from  faith  in  the 
divine  right  of  kings  to  the  efficacy  of  an  upright  poker 
against  the  grate.  Again  for  a  second  Sara  regretted 
the  swash-buckling  days  when  lovely  woman  was  toasted 
— and  forgotten  almost  as  quickly  as  the  glasses  that  were 
smashed  in  her  honour.  Then  she  recoiled  from  her  own 


312  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

thoughts,  for  Archer  Bellew  was  a  throwback  to  those 
days  before  the  flood.  Was  he  not  nicknamed  "the 
knave  of  hearts"? 

When  she  returned  to  her  room  after  dinner,  she  found 
a  woman  kneeling  before  the  fire  to  replenish  it.  The 
sight  of  Mrs.  Bodinar  was  a  fresh  irritation,  since  Bessie 
stood  for  the  web  of  circumstance  which  had  entangled 
them  all.  A  mood  of  voluble  explanation  fell  upon  Sara ; 
she  began  eagerly  to  say  that  Mr.  Knyvett's  mother,  be- 
ing too  ill  to  come,  had  sent  her  as  deputy.  Mrs.  Bodi- 
nar preserved  a  silence  that  sounded  accusatory. 

"But  Mr.  Knyvett  doesn't  need  me  now.  You've 
nursed  him  so  splendidly,"  said  Sara. 

"And  so  I  ought  to,"  cried  the  woman,  "with  my  man 
playing  the  fool,  same  as  he  did.  And  him  a  seaman, 
one  of  the  best.  'Twas  all  he  had,  his  seamanship.  And 
now  that's  gone,  too." 

"But  you  did  your  best." 

"My  best!  What's  a  woman's  best?  If  I'd  worked 
my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  get  us  out  of  the  mess  Sim's 
brought -to  us,  I  couldn't  have  done  it." 

"But  you  were  not  responsible,"  began  Sara. 

The  woman  cut  her  short  savagely. 

"When  a  woman's  man  does  ill,  it  stings  worse 'n  if 
she  'd  done  it  herself.  And  when  he  does  well,  she  feels 
'tis  his  doing,  not  hers.  All  sting  and  no  comfort. 
That 's  marriage  for  a  woman. ' ' 

Sara  sat  down  and,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand, 
gazed  at  the  fire.  The  peering  eyes  watched  her  closely. 
Then  she  began  to  unpack,  laying  linen  in  the  drawers 
from  the  cabin  trunk. 

"Don't  take  out  much,"  said  Sara,  "I'm  going  back 
by  the  next  boat." 

This  speech  was  meant  as  a  challenge;  Mrs.  Bodinar 
took  it  as  such. 

"Don't  you  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  cried  she.  "My 
Lord!  what  a  mort  o'  things  I've  seen  going  wrong  this 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  313 

last  year  or  two.  And  here  am  I  talking,  that  ought  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut. ' ' 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Bodinar?  Say  what  you  want  to 
say."  Sara  laughed  and,  crossing  the  room,  laid  a  hand 
on  the  woman's  shoulder.  "And  what's  he  done,  after 
all?  Your  husband,  I  mean,"  she  cried.  "Only 
brought  Mr.  Knyvett  across  the  Atlantic  by  telling  a 
few  lies  perhaps — " 

"And  showed  hisself  a  coward.  And  Sim  hasn't  any- 
thing but  his  seamanship,  he  that  was  so  looked  up  to. 
That  once  saw  himself  so  big,  too." 

' '  But  your  children  ? ' '  asked  Sara,  ' '  Don 't  they  make 
up  to  you  ? ' ' 

"Chillern!  That's  the  worst  of  all.  I  try  to  forget 
I've  got  'em.  They're  no  great  shakes.  And  they're 
my  doing,  for  I  bore  them  with  the  bad  thing  over  me. ' ' 

The  old  furtive  glance  began  and  Sara  wondered  if 
the  woman  were  sane. 

"Yes,  I'm  right  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Bodinar,  answer- 
ing her  glance.  "  'Tis  only  that  I've  got  the  sight.  My 
mother  and  my  mother's  mother  had  it  afore  me.  Just 
a  change  in  your  eyesight  and  you  can  see  what's  all 
around  us,  what  others  don't  see.  And  then  there's 
sleep  and  dreams." 

"Fortune-telling,  you  mean?" 

The  woman's  pride  flashed.  "Ay,  they  all  knowed 
Bessie  Bodinar.  Come  from  miles  round,  they  would. 
I've  had  so  many  as  three  motor-cars  come  to  my  door 
in  one  week.  I'm  a  Crowte  and  the  Crowtes  all  have  it. 
And  there's  my  chillern  born  with  that  going  on  all 
round  'em.  I've  lived  so  much  on  the  other  side  that 
some  days  I'd  be  glad  to  see  a  butcher's  shop  again  or 
Mr.  Beavis  cutting  bacon.  Fancy  chillern  coming  in  the 
midst  of  all  that.  They've  a  deal  to  do  with  birth,  they 
on  the  other  side — always.  And  I  didn't  keep  good 
company  there.  So  my  chillern 's  poor  trade.  They're 
my  work,  and  it's  bad." 


314  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

The  strange  ideas  arrested  Sara  in  the  bewilderment 
of  her  own  choice. 

"Most  folks,"  continued  Mrs.  Bodinar,  "be  wound 
about  and  about  with  their  own  doings  by  the  time 
they'm  middle-aged.  'Tis  like  silkworms,  all  tied  up 
with  what's  come  out  of  their  own  inside." 

' '  I  suppose  one  can  escape  ? ' ' 

"You  can  bite  your  way  out.     That's  all  you  can  do." 

1 '  Children  must  be  the  worst  cocoon. ' ' 

"So  they  be.  'Twas  through  them  I  lost  my  hold 
on  Simon.  We'd  worked  together  more  like  friend  and 
friend  than  man  and  wife  till  I'd  got  to  stay  home  to 
mind  the  chillern.  That  spoilt  it  all.  A  man  grows 
away  from  his  wife  that  way.  A  man  didn't  ought  to 
be  left  to  hisself." 

Mrs.  Bodinar  reminded  Sara  of  a  parson  explaining 
that  without  churches  all  the  world  is  devoid  of  "the 
means  of  grace. ' ' 

' '  Ought  I  to  bite  my  way  out  ? ' '  she  asked  suddenly. 

"I  reckon  that's  what  you've  done,  haven't  'ee?" 

The  rough  words  shook  Sara  into  anger.  Bessie  un- 
derstood. 

' '  You  're  doing  naught  but  harm  to  your  man.  That 's 
all  there  is  to  it.  I  've  seen  'en — a  chap  that  wants  some- 
body to  think  for  'en,  eat  for  'en,  breathe  for  'en  and 
put  herself  all  round  'en.  He'd  better  get  one  that  can. 
You  can't." 

Sara  was  silent.  She  resented  short  ways  applied  to 
herself. 

"Go  and  tell  Mr.  Westlake,"  she  said  curtly,  "that  I 
want  to  go  out  and  see  the  town." 

Mrs.  Bodinar  smiled  slyly  and  went  on  her  errand. 
In  a  few  minutes  Sara  was  out  of  the  hotel  and  on  the 
quay  where  Peter  joined  her. 

"I  say,"  he  cried,  "it's  lateish,  you  know." 

She  stamped  her  foot.     "Peter,"  she  cried,  "do  be 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  315 

quiet.  If  you  don't  want  to  come,  I  can  go  alone.  It's 
still  nearly  daylight." 

"Of  course,  if  you  want — "  he  said,  and  followed 
meekly  between  the  rows  of  flat,  snow-covered  roofs. 
Four  roads  led  through  the  town  up  from  the  water- 
side to  the  plaza  deep  in  black  mud.  The  lighted  doors 
of  the  Teatro  Municipal  attracted  Sara.  She  felt  the 
need  of  something  that  might  make  her  forget  the  nerves 
fretted  now  to  the  fragility  of  thin,  rust-eaten  wires,  the 
brain  behind  the  forehead  that  had  grown  empty  it 
seemed,  and  bloodless.  The  two  went  in. 

The  room  was  coffin-shaped  and  from  the  sides  the 
evening  half-light  filtered  between  the  dull  red  pilasters, 
mingling  grey,  silvery  tones  with  the  orange  of  the  foot- 
lights. Above  the  heads  of  the  audience,  Chilians,  Nor- 
wegians, Germans  and  English,  wide-mouthed  angels 
blew  trumpets  towards  the  apex  of  the  roof. 

Outside  the  sleet-laden  wind  from  Terra  del  Fuego 
churned  the  waters  of  the  Straits  to  fury.  And  only  a 
few  years  ago  a  price  was  set  upon  the  heads  of  natives 
in  Punta  Arenas,  those  same  natives  who  have  been  made 
by  missionary  zeal  the  victims  of  one  of  the  silliest 
crimes  ever  committed  by  civilisation.  Peter  had  been 
talking  of  it,  as  they  walked  up  the  street,  of  the  pious 
fools  who  taught  the  Yahgans  the  wickedness  of  self- 
defence  and  so  handed  their  women  over  to  the  bestial 
ways  of  whaling  crews,  besides  shutting  their  children 
up  to  die  of  consumption  by  scores.  Rage  burnt  in  Sara 
as  she  thought  of  all  the  helpless  made  to  suffer  in  order 
that  meddlers  may  feel  themselves  virtuous.  Was  she 
not  like  a  canoe  Indian,  tied  to  the  stake  of  the  world's 
opinion  in  order  that  none  might  be  harrowed  by  the 
sight  of  a  creature  living  its  own  life  ? 

She  was  glad  to  watch  the  stage.  The  scene  might 
have  been  taken  from  an  ancient  German  woodcut,  with 
its  gnarled  and  twisted  trees  half  hiding  among  their 


316  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

branches  a  Tmge  stork's  nest.  Every  reed,  every  twig 
stood  out  boldly. 

The  audience  chattered  like  a  perching  flock  of  gulls, 
then  they  craned  forward.  Among  the  trees  was  a 
dancer,  a  woman.  Lithe,  lean  and  swarthy,  her  slant- 
ing eyes  seemed  more  Eastern  than  Western,  yet  the 
whites  of  them  flashed ;  she  was  no  Japanese,  but  Chilian 
probably.  So  close  she  kept  to  the  tree  branches  that 
it  seemed  a  nature  dance,  as  true  to  its  surroundings  as 
the  protective  mimicry  of  birds  and  insects.  Then  they 
saw  she  had  a  companion,  a  lad  whose  thin  flanks  ap- 
peared half  stiff  with  fear  for  all  the  wiriness  of  his 
young  limbs.  The  two  danced  noiselessly,  the  boy  seek- 
ing vainly  to  elude  his  shadow,  the  woman.  Now  wheel- 
ing close  to  the  ground  like  a  bird  on  the  seashore,  now 
gliding  like  a  moonbeam  between  the  trees,  she  fore- 
stalled every  movement.  Faint  lights  flickered  through 
the  wood  and  went  out;  pale  beams  flamed  along  the 
floor  like  the  streaks  of  rosy  colour  when  the  shallow  tide 
creeps  over  sandstone;  dull  greens  flashed,  the  green  of 
weed-clogged  estuaries;  the  blue  faded  into  the  grey 
flecked  with  purple  that  marks  the  distant  hills.  The 
wood  seemed  to  be  contracting  to  bring  the  woman 
nearer  to  her  prey. 

The  tide  to  the  moon,  the  flower  to  the  wind,  the  lean- 
ing palm  tree  to  her  mate,  the  fish  in  the  sea,  the  wheel- 
ing birds  in  air,  the  call  of  that  which  is  strength  in 
weakness,  source  of  the  world's  beauty  and  cruelty — 
they  had  all  gone  back,  Bradford  wool-buyers,  Chilians, 
swarthy  greyhounds  with  native  blood  in  them,  pure 
blooded  Norsemen  and  Teutons,  back  into  the  gulf  of 
half-forgotten  things,  each  one  a  living  sepulchre  of  the 
past.  Old  things  stirred  in  atom  and  fibre. 

In  the  midst  of  the  roar  of  applause  Sara  rose  and 
slipped  away,  Peter  following.  Outside,  the  noise  of  the 
surf  came  over  the  roofs ;  the  cobbles  gleamed  wet  in  the 
streets  against  the  planks  of  wood  that  cut  off  the  muddy 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  317 

sidewalks  from  the  streets.  The  edge  of  the  sea  was 
outlined  by  a  white  line  of  foam.  Lights  swayed  from 
the  mastheads  of  the  anchored  vessels.  Far  away,  un- 
seen, were  the  desolate  hills  of  Fire  Land. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  asked  Sara. 

' '  Nobody  knows, ' '  said  Peter,  ' '  but— ' ' 

"But  what?" 

"We're  going  on,"  said  he,  "we're  not  going  back." 

Sara  was  silent.  She  wanted  a  more  confident  answer 
than  that. 

"Do  you  want  to  fall  out,"  asked  he,  "out  of  the 
procession  ? ' ' 

"No,"  she  said,  and  then  again,  more  confidently, 
"no." 

The  next  instant  she  laughed  at  herself  for.  the  im- 
pression the  incident  had  made  on  her.  For  what  was 
it,  after  all?  An  ugly  woman  fooling  in  a  dancing 
booth  before  a  crowd  of  seamen  and  commercial  travel- 
lers, and  following  that,  a  glimpse  of  the  sea.  Yet — it 
was  very  much  a  part  of  the  procession  all  the  same. 

Lying  wakeful  in  her  bed  that  night,  Sara  heard  a 
footstep  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  sitting-room.  She 
got  up,  and  slipping  on  a  gown,  waited  for  a  moment 
shivering.  It  was  unbearable,  that  sense  of  patient  en- 
durance. Softly  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  she  pushed 
the  door  ajar. 

"Ah,"  said  Billy,  "I  was  wondering  whether  you 
were  lying  there  awake.  Come." 

He  threw  another  log  on  the  fire  and  pulled  forward 
a  chair  for  her.  Leaning  an  arm  along  the  mantelpiece, 
he  looked  down  on  her. 

"Child,"  he  asked  tenderly,  "have  I  hurt  you?  You 
feel  I  have  failed  you?  Is  it  not  so?" 

She  roused  herself. 

' '  It  felt  like  that  at  first, ' '  she  said,  "  but  I  was  wrong. ' ' 

"I  love  you,  Sara,  never  better  than  now." 

"I  know." 


318  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"But  the  other  way  is  the  easier,"  he  smiled. 

"Yes — the  other  way." 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  visit  to  the  Teatro  Municipal. 

"That — and  this,"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hands, 
' '  this  feeling  of  ours  that  makes  us  dread  even  the  faint- 
est shadow  of  wrong  on  what  ties  us !  Oh,  Billy,  what 
does  it  all  mean?"  It  was  the  question  she  had  asked 
of  Peter. 

' '  You  understand  then — what  I  feel  ? "  he  asked. 

' '  I  see  it  through  your  eyes, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  I  could 
not  bear  it  else.  But  that  in  the  theatre — and  this  ? ' ' 

"We  know  both,"  he  said,  holding  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  "But  we  have  come  to  the  ultimate  outpost, 
have  we  not  ? ' ' 

"Love?"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded. 

"And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, 
The  last  relay  and  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity?" 

Then  ashamed  of  self -revelation,  he  grew  embarrassed. 

She  could  not  fully  understand,  for  indeed  she  was 
in  pain,  but  she  dreaded  the  worse  suffering  she  might 
have  had  to  bear.  And  shining  like  a  clear  star  was  her 
trust  in  his  honour. 

"But  what  will  you  do,  dear  heart?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

So  she  tried  to  tell  him — how  she  must  feel  the  earth 
firm  beneath  her  feet,  must  work  and  earn  a  place  for 
herself. 

"I'll  be  something  worth  while,  even  yet,"  she  cried. 
"I  have  my  music.  I've  a  leverage,  something  to  sell 
that  people  want.  At  the  worst  I  can  teach." 

Yet  the  man  in  him  rebelled  for  an  instant  at  the 
idea  of  her  making  a  niche  for  herself.  He  wanted  to 
make  one  for  her. 

"But,"  said  she  briskly,  "I  don't  in  the  least  give  in 


THE  FOOL  OF  QUALITY  319 

from  my  main  position.  I  did  right  to  leave  Archer. 
I'll  not  acquiesce  in  a  marriage  that  ought  not  to  have 
been.  The  only  thing  to  do  in  this  world  if  you  've  made 
a  mistake  is  to  try  and  put  it  right.  And  perhaps  we 
can  use  that  ridiculous  back  door  into  common  sense 
allowed  by  the  English  law — restitution  of  conjugal 
rights.  Would  your  recognition  of  me  as  a  possible  Mrs. 
Billy  Knyvett  be  satisfied  by  that  ? ' '  she  laughed. 

Then  he  surprised  her,  showing  that  behind  Jacob 
there  still  lurked  Ishmael. 

"If,"  he  said  quietly,  "at  the  end  of  a  year  you  still 
feel  as  you  do  now,  I  shall  come  and  take  you. ' ' 

"Billy!"  she  gasped. 

"Sara!"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  "will  you  never  under- 
stand? What  is  mine  I  will  take.  But  I  must  be  sure 
it  is  mine.  I  will  have  no  forcing  of  your  hand.  My 
mother  carried  you  off  your  feet.  So  did  Bellew.  So 
did  my  illness.  Come  to  me  with  all  your  soul  your  own, 
and—" 

There  was  no  need  to  end  the  sentence. 

' '  I  shall  go  away  at  once, ' '  she  whispered.  "  I  'm  going 
back  by  the  next  boat." 

"No,  no,"  he  cried,  "not  so  soon  as  that." 

"Yes,"  she  persisted.  "We  will  not  fail  each  other, 
Billy." 

So  they  entered  on  theip  comradeship. 

As  they  clasped  hands  across  the  writing-table,  the 
sketch-plan  of  the  Andean  railway  lay  between  them. 
In  Sara's  eyes  it  stood  for  all  that  linked,  yet  separated 
them.  For  it  is  not  only  the  red-gold  dawn  nor  Sirius  in 
his  glory  that  keeps  us  from  the  gutter  now ;  it  is  the  high 
tradition  of  our  race.  Shall  a  man  still  go  untouched 
by  the  fact  that  one  of  his  blood  once  saw  the  spring  as 
Botticelli  saw  it,  or  looked  at  a  woman  and  found  the 
Mona  Lisa  ? 

Something  of  this  Sara  said. 

' '  Culture ! ' '  sneered  Billy.    ' '  What 's  Hecuba  to  me  ?  " 


320  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Then  they  both  forgot,  for  he  had  crossed  the  room 
and  caught  her  up.  The  year's  separation  outbulked 
for  them  the  dog-star  and  all  the  galaxy  of  pictures  in 
the  Louvre. 

Yet  he  understood  the  principle  of  bridge-building 
very  well.  Only  he  hated  words. 


CHAPTER  XV 
PACTOLUS,  "WHOSE  FOAM  is  AMBER  AND  WHOSE  GRAVEL, 

GOLD";   IN  THIS  IS  SOLVED  THE  MYSTERY   OF   SIMON   BO- 
DIN  AR'S   ENCHANTED   CIGARETTES. 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  the  steamship  Coloso,  hired  in 
Punta  Arenas  to  go  up  Smyth's  Channel,  was  well 
on  her  way  to  Bodinar's  Cove. 

"Let  her  rip,"  said  Billy,  keen  to  get  the  job  done, 
and  the  Norwegian  skipper  had  no  objection.  Then,  at 
Port  Famine,  the  sudden  slowing  down  of  the  engines 
made  everybody's  head  buzz;  a  motor-boat  from  Punta 
Arenas  was  overhauling  the  tug. 

"The  British  consul's  launch,"  exclaimed  Knyvett, 
handing  the  glass  to  Peter. 

To  the  south  stretched  the  curving  channels  of  Mag- 
dalen Sound,  running  like  a  thread  into  the  heart  of 
the  Fuegian  hills.  The  shifting  wind  blew  alternate 
cloud  and  sunlight  across  the  snowy  summits  that  jut 
from  the  blackness  of  deep,  tree-covered  valleys.  Above 
Mount  Sarmiento,  its  snow-covered  rock  ridges  a  daz- 
zling mass  of  streaky  gold,  hung  a  ragged  curtain  of 
mist. 

The  motor-boat  came  alongside  the  Coloso ;  Billy's 
brows  puckered  as  he  read  the  dispatch: 

' '  The  man  Pycrof t  about  whom  you  were  enquiring  is 
now  reported  as  wanted  by  the  Chilian  government  and 
is  supposed  to  be  in  hiding  at  Sandy  Point.  Has  cer- 
tainly left  Coronel  where  he  was  last  employed  at  ex- 
pert work  in  the  glass  factory.  I  enclose  an  official 
copy  of  the  photograph  which  is  being  circulated. ' ' 

" Wanted,"  said  Billy.  "Gun-running,  perhaps,  but 
321 


322  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

it  narrows  the  net  round  him.  Anyway,  it  saves  us 
Coronel." 

The  photograph  showed  a  man  whose  low  forehead 
and  set-back  ears  gave  him  a  "bullish"  look.  His  cheeks 
hung  in  folds  that  curtained  the  framework  of  the  face 
rather  than  moulded  it — a  fibrous,  hairy  fellow  with  a 
mouth  like  a  trap. 

"You  think  you'll  have  to  trace  him,  then,"  asked 
Peter. 

"I  haven't  got  to  the  bottom  of  Bodinar — yet,"  an- 
swered Billy.  "And  if  Bodinar  doesn't  pan  out  well, 
Pycrof t  must. ' ' 

Once  aboard  the  Coloso  the  seaman  had  given  them 
another  surprise.  Alert,  keen,  ready,  he  showed  his 
knowledge  of  ports  and  harbours  to  be  greater  than  that 
of  the  skipper  who  had  spent  ten  years  steaming  up 
and  down  these  Straits.  He  was  facing  the  very  same 
game  that  he  had  funked  all  across  the  Pond.  Only  now 
he  was  playing  it. 

It  was  iBessie  'who  failed  this  time,  for  the  desolation 
of  grey,  immemorial  ages  was  fretting  her  nerves  to 
thin  wire.  It  was  not  many  hours  later  that  the  storm 
burst. 

She  sat  up  in  her  bunk,  for  the  cabin  was  suddenly 
filled  with  darkness  as  though  the  Coloso  were  passing 
through  a  tunnel.  Looking  out  of  the  port-hole  she 
saw  that  they  were  just  beneath  the  shadow  of  over- 
hanging cliffs.  The  lead  line  was  going  and  the  siren 
whistling,  for  the  tug  was  seeking  anchorage  for  the 
night.  The  grey  evening  light  threw  a  pallid  gleam 
over  the  sea.  Mrs.  Bodinar  wiped  her  face,  for  the  air 
of  the  cabin  was  close. 

' '  How  '11  it  all  end  ? "  she  cried.  ' '  And  what  the  devil 's 
afore  us?" 

The  old  human  weariness  overcame  her,  the  longing 
to  push  open  the  door  of  the  future  and  peep  in.  She 
eyed  her  big,  corded  tin  box  and  sidled,  tortoise-like, 


PACTOLUS  323 

away  from  it.  To  Mrs.  Bodinar  that  box  was  the  bottle 
which  the  toper  places  on  the  shelf — to  remind  him  of 
his  strength. 

She  opened  the  door  softly  and  peeped  up  the  gang- 
way; just  outside  stood  the  companion  stairs  and  the 
cabin  doors  swung  slightly ;  from  the  engine  room  came 
the  sound  of  hissing  steam.  She  went  back,  knelt  down 
and  opened  the  box.  Burrowing,  she  flung  out  layers 
of  clothes;  then  came  a  square  inlaid  work-box,  a  pic- 
ture under  glass  of  the  Monument,  a  pile  of  photographs 
in  plush  frames  and  finally,  a  bit  of  wax  all  ridged  by 
her  thread,  a  reminder  of  the  time  when  she  used  to 
make  Bodinar 's  small-clothes.  She  sat  back  on  her 
heels  and  saw  in  fancy  the  sunlight  glisten  on  the  two 
brass  buttons  at  the  back  of  the  trousers;  homesickness 
rose  in  her  like  a  bitter  wave. 

Then  she  looked  up ;  her  husband  was  watching  her 
from  the  doorway  of  the  cabin  which  he  shared  with 
Scantlebury,  the  assayer  they  had  taken  on  at  Sandy 
Point. 

"You  devil,"  she  cried,  "you  lazy,  loafing  devil  to 
bring  me  out  here — here  where  I  've  got  the  horrors  day 
and  night.  And  I  know  I'll  never  see  a  Devon  short- 
horn again  nor  eat  a  bit  of  home-cured  bacon.  I  shall 
die  out  here.  I  know  I  shall.  And  'twill  be  you  that 
done  it.  They'll  heave  me  overboard,  here  where  'tis 
death-cold  and  never  give  me  Christian  burial. ' ' 

Hysteria  raged. 

"I  never  asked  'ee  to  come.  'Twas  but  your  own 
cussed  curiosity,  the  thing  you  got  from  the  old  lady, 
back  along,  my  dear." 

"The  ungrateful  toad,"  cried  she,  "and  to  me,  me, 
that  followed  'en  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  saying  where 
thou  goest,  I  will  go." 

"A  man  don't  want  it  said  to  'en.  Where 'd  be  the 
British  Navy,  where  'd  be  the  Mercantile  Marine  if  every 
man  wanted  that  said  to  'en?  Dry  up,  Bessie." 


324  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"I'll  not.  You  miserable,  lying  cheat  that  have  been 
the  ruin  of  me  for  forty  year,  that  have  lived  on  me 
and  taken  the  food  out  of  your  children 's  mouths.  And 
you  with  your  waistcoat  pocket  full  of  gravel,  and  your 
bag  full  of  sand!  You'll  come  to  the  scaffold,  if  you 
don't  mind  what  you're  about." 

"Scaffold!  saith-a,"  quoth  Simon  truculently;  "they 
don't  hang  for  sheep-stealing  now.  And  do  I  look  like 
an  Oliver  Grumble  to  perish  on  the  scaffold?"  he  added, 
going  over  to  look  at  his  hirsute  countenance  in  the 
hanging  glass. 

"I  did  go  it  a  bit  in  Sandy  Point — women,  wine  and 
the  rest  of  it.  But  when  I  want  a  thing,  'tis  away  to 
go  for  it,  straight,  with  me.  Can't  bear  to  wait."  He 
was  sparring  vigorously  with  clenched  fists  at  an  unseen 
foe. 

"But  when  I  see  things  spin,  I'm  like  a  daisy."  He 
was  rotating  now  in  clumsy  imitation  of  a  ballroom 
couple. 

"Give  us  a  kiss,  old  girl.  Know  the  song,  'My 
Old  Dutch'?  Lord!  what  a  pretty  little  figure  you  used 
to  be." 

She  sent  him  staggering  across  the  cabin. 

"That's  a  dear,  little  loving  wife,  that  is!  a  damned 
sight  more  like  a  gaoler,  I  call  it.  Gaol!  Yes,  that's 
what  marriage  is.  'Snap,'  says  the  parson,  and  there 
you  be  caged  for  life."  He  contemplated  her  up  and 
down. 

"Well,  I'm  gormed  .  .  .  and  I  can't  say  fairer 
than  that." 

His  eyes  falling  suddenly  on  the  pile  of  rubbish  on 
the  floor  he  became  quite  silent,  all  his  buffoonery  dead. 
Mrs.  Bodinar  watched  him  like  a  lynx  and  saw  that  he 
pecked  his  eye  on  the  top  photograph  of  the  pile,  that 
of  a  group  of  men.  Whistling,  he  stooped,  stared, 
nosed  about,  then  got  himself  out  of  the  cabin. 

Like  a  lapwing  Mrs.  Bodinar  swooped  to  the  photo- 


PACTOLUS  325 

graph ;  it  showed  a  set  of  workmen,  some  in  blouses  and 
overalls.  Bessie's  eyes  passed  slowly  from  man  to  man. 
Then — she  knew  the  joy  of  a  Newton.  She  held  out  a 
big  bare  arm  across  the  table  and  kept  it  fast  pressed, 
for  she  could  almost  feel  the  power  sparkle  and  flash  up 
and  down  her  body  in  electric  waves.  Brain  messages 
flew,  the  something  godlike  called  intuition  worked. 
The  same  instinct  was  flashing  in  Mrs.  Bodinar  that 
helps  men  to  fling  the  gossamers  of  thought  over  the 
yawning  chasms  of  the  unknown,  for  the  curiosity  that 
dogs  the  stars  in  their  courses,  the  spirit  in  its  secrets, 
was  one  with  her  craving  to  know.  It  was  the  point  at 
which  she  met  her  husband's  mind. 

Then  at  last  she  remembered  her  work  and  bundling 
the  things  helter-skelter  into  her  box,  flung  down  the 
cover  and  left  the  cabin.  Never  were  the  birds  and 
fishes  of  the  day's  sport  more  artistically  prepared  for 
dinner  than  on  that  evening. 

When  she  returned  to  her  cabin  there  was  no  hesita- 
tion in  her  movements,  for  the  zest  of  one  piece  of  knowl- 
edge had  given  her  a  lust  for  more.  Hauling  a  glass 
globe  from  the  bottom  of  her  box,  she  held  it  against  a 
square  of  old,  cotton-backed  velveteen  that,  cracked  and 
thinned  by  years  of  folding,  bent  to  familiar  shapes  be- 
hind the  round  ball.  Placing  it  on  the  table  with  the 
bulkhead  lamp  behind  it,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
thing. 

It  was  very  quiet;  only  from  time  to  time  there  came 
a  dull,  booming  sound  from  a  far  distance;  it  was  the 
glacier  edge  breaking  into  the  water.  The  footsteps  of  the 
anchor-watch  paced  up  and  down.  Then  a  wind  moaned 
and  passed.  Between  the  staring  woman  and  her  home 
lay  leagues  of  sea;  her  vitals  were  thrilling  with  an 
ache  to  smell  the  meadow-sweet,  to  see  the  shadows  of 
the  elms  across  the  Devon  grass.  Where  would  the  freed 
spirit  take  her  ? 

The  milky  cloudiness  that  precedes  vision  gathered 


326  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

over  the  globe;  a  tremor  passed  up  the  spinal  cord;  the 
skin  prickled  as  though  threatening  goose-flesh.  There 
seemed  a  loosening  of  the  ties  of  the  body  and  she  passed 
into  lethargy. 

She  awoke,  stirred,  had  seen  nothing.  Blowing  out 
the  light,  too  exhausted  for  thought,  she  threw  herself 
on  the  bunk.  In  sleep,  overhead  through  the  cabin  ceil- 
ing there  opened  a  shaft  of  cold  air,  but  the  constella- 
tions above  were  not  the  home  stars;  she  saw  that  who 
knew  no  name  of  planet  or  fixed  star.  The  dreamer 
stirred,  moaned  and  fell  asleep  again;  this  time  two 
butterflies  circled  in  sunlight.  There  was  a  click,  as 
though  a  plate  had  been  changed  and  she  knew  that 
behind  her  lay  an  eyeless  body  on  which  the  sea  things 
had  fed.  The  face  of  the  man  in  life  had  been  perfectly 
familiar  to  herself  and  her  husband. 

The  straggling  grey  locks  on  her  forehead  fell  for- 
ward as  she  struggled  to  sit  up.  In  the  light  of  the 
night  candle  she  laid  her  arms  around  her  knees  and 
rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  the  sweat  damp  on  her  skin. 
"Dear  Lord,"  she  moaned  and  shifting  her  arms  gripped 
her  waist,  for  she  was  racked  with  pain.  Then,  swing- 
ing her  feet  over  the  side  of  her  berth,  she  got  down 
and  drained  the  tooth-glass  in  great  gulps.  The  thing 
she  had  seen  was  as  vivid  as  the  glare  of  a  shop  window. 
She  turned  to  her  box  and  presently  every  single  thing 
it  had  contained  was  on  the  floor.  But  the  photograph 
that  had  attracted  Bodinar  was  gone. 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said. 

Rounding  Tamar  Island  next  day,  they  caught  for  a 
second  a  glimpse  of  Cape  Pillar  at  the  far  western  end 
of  the  Straits,  a  solitary  steeple  point  in  a  whirling 
curtain  of  rain  and  mist.  Then  with  incessant  whistling 
they  threaded  day  by  day  the  inland  waterway  that 
curves  in  one  long  stretch  of  three  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  inland  up  to  the  Gulf  of  Peiias  and  the  open 
waters  of  the  Pacific,  sending  offshoots  of  inland  seas 


PACTOLUS  327 

right  up  into  the  foot-hills  of  the  Cordilleras.  Piled 
cloud  masses,  tossed  by  the  wind  into  monstrous  shapes, 
hung  above  the  solemn  twilight  of  the  steel-grey  waters 
that  were  girt  about  with  lofty  cliffs,  clad  in  ever- 
greens up  two  thousand  feet  from  the  water 's  edge,  with 
stunted  bushes  beyond  and  beyond  that  again  with  snow- 
scarred  steeples  and  pinnacles  of  bare  ancient  rock  of 
gneiss  or  granite.  After  passing  Mount  Burney  with 
its  glacier  of  beryl-blue  pouring  down  out  of  a  roof  of 
clouds  and  mist,  almost  utter  blackness  fell  on  them  as 
the  Coloso  steamed  between  the  rocky  walls  that  guard 
the  bay  called  Occasion  Cove. 

''Latitude  51°  42'  40"  S.,"  said  the  skipper  as  they 
let  go  the  anchor.  He  felt  he  had  done  the  job  ship- 
shape and  Bristol  fashion. 

Scarcely  anyone  aboard  slept  much  that  night.  From 
the  deck  they  could  discern  the  long  grey  outline  of  an 
islet.  Slowly  at  last  the  dawn  came ;  at  first  the  shores 
of  the  bay  were  but  shadowy  visions  of  dream.  Then 
they  showed  themselves  to  be  tree-clad  right  up  to  the 
sands.  Inland  fell  the  thin  thread  of  a  waterfall  where 
the  river  leapt  a  precipice.  Near  the  beach  stood  the 
bent  branches  that  mark  a  deserted  native  hut. 
Through  the  fog  everything  seemed  exaggerated  in  size 
along  the  shore. 

As  they  rowed  in,  it  became  clear  that  the  stream  was 
far  narrower  than  in  Bodinar's  first  report  and  flowed 
through  marsh,  not  sand, — heavy,  weed-grown  marsh 
covered  with  scurvy  grass.  Bodinar  rowed  with  the 
boat's  crew,  but  Scantlebury,  the  assayer,  a  long,  tac- 
iturn, thin-faced  lad,  was  over  the  gunwale  in  a  second 
as  they  grounded. 

Over  the  side  of  the  anchored  Coloso  the  crew  leant, 
with  a  thin  column  of  smoke  rising  from  the  galley  fire 
where  Cornelius,  the  only  calm  man  aboard,  was  frying 
fish-cakes.  Loping  across  the  deck  the  Pendragon's  cats 
played  jiujutsu.  Billy  had  stopped  to  watch  them  for 


328  WINGS  OF  DESIEE 

a  second,  for  they  made  him  think  of  Boulou  and  Baby 
at  home  in  Craneham. 

The  assayer  flung  himself  flat  on  his  belly  across  the 
sand.  Clearly,  while  they  waited,  they  could  discern 
the  drip  of  water  from  the  heavy,  sagging  branches  of 
the  trees,  the  hissing  rise  and  fall  of  the  waterfall  on 
the  breeze.  Peter  moistened  his  dry  lips  and  thought 
of  Anne.  Queer,  somehow,  how  the  women's  shadows 
stood  behind  the  men. 

At  last  the  assayer  got  up  and  brushed  the  sand  from 
his  trousers.  They  glared  at  him  as  though  they  were 
a  primeval  tribe  watching  a  medicine  man. 

"Mica,"  he  said  curtly,  "nothing  but  mica.  No 
chance  of  gold.  Never  found  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
granitic  rock." 

"Certain?"  asked  Billy. 

"Absolutely." 

The  tide  was  at  half;  they  waited  till  it  fell,  even 
setting  up  tents  in  impatient  expectation  of  pay-dirt 
at  the  tide  line.  Peter  and  the  assayer  forced  a  way 
up  the  river.  For  it  might  be  that  auriferous  sand  was 
brought  down  at  certain  times  of  the  year  from  inland 
cliffs.  Great  fallen  trees,  heart-rotten,  barred  their 
way ;  their  feet  sank  deep  into  layer  after  layer  of  moss. 
More  impenetrable  than  tropic  forests,  this  wood  re- 
pelled them;  reeking,  rain-drenched  from  immemorial 
ages,  it  yielded  but  the  enormous  globes  of  yellow  fungus 
which  the  Alaculof  eats.  A  curious  twittering  bird  fol- 
lowed them,  flying  close  against  their  faces.  Otherwise 
— death. 

Yellow  against  a  livid  sky  they  left  the  shore  behind 
them  next  day.  Bodinar  appeared  unruffled,  but  Billy 
watched  him  with  a  certain  doubt;  was  this  the  place 
he  had  described  ?  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn 
the  boat's  head  for  Punta  Arenas,  there  to  search  for 
that  remarkable  chemist  who  had  found  two  and  a  half 
ounces  of  gold  in  a  kerosene  tin  of  mica. 


PACTOLUS  329 

' '  How  does  he  strike  you,  Peter  ? ' '  asked  Billy  as  they 
sat  at  coffee  after  dinner. 

"Uncommon  jaunty,"  answered  Peter. 

"So  he  does  me.  Like  a  man  that's  carried  out  a 
scheme  successfully.  Did  he  take  us  to  the  wrong  place 
purposely,  feeling  that  he'd  a  whole  company  against 
him." 

"The  discrepancies  are  easily  accounted  for.  He'd 
been  drinking.  Also,  he's  an  imaginative  devil,  yet,  of 
course  a  seaman  estimates  distances  better  than  most 
men. ' ' 

They  sat  smoking  in  silence.  Then  Billy  went  on 
deck.  The  ship  was  at  anchor  in  Collingwood  Strait,  in 
sight  of  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  the  Cordillera  of 
Sarmiento.  The  thin,  clear  moonlight  shone  on  floating 
ice  "calves";  black  as  Erebus  the  velvety  texture  of  the 
tree-clad  cliffs. 

At  the  top  of  the  companion  steps  angry  voices  caught 
his  ear,  one  certainly  was  Bodinar's  and  the  other,  ap- 
parently, the  assayer's. 

' '  I  take  your  sovereign !  What  the  hell  do  you  mean 
by  it?" 

"And  there's  more  gone.  You've  been  routling 
among  my  papers, ' '  said  Bodinar. 

"Take  it  back,  or—" 

This  was  certainly  Scantlebury 'a  voice;  cat-like  in 
his  soft  deck  shoes,  Billy  dropped  below.  But  quicker 
than  himself,  he  saw  Mrs.  Bodinar  slip  like  a  shadow 
down  the  gangway  and  into  the  cabin. 

"Hold  your  noise,  you  fool,"  she  cried. 

The  fear  in  her  tones  arrested  Knyvett's  attention 
more  than  the  rough  burr  of  the  men 's  voices.  He  stood 
still  for  a  moment,  half  against  his  will. 

"I've  got  the  picture  you  took  from  my  box  of  that 
murdering  villain,"  she  cried.  "And  what's  more  the 
Captain 's  got  the  spit  of  it  on  his  table. ' ' 

"And    there's    your    sovereign,"    said    Scantlebury. 


330  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"But  I'll  not  berth  with  you,  you  lying  scoundrel." 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  asked  Billy,  advancing 
from  the  shadows.  Mrs.  Bodinar  gasped  and  flung  up 
her  hands.  Red-eyed  and  foxy,  Bodinar  watched  them 
all. 

"The  Captain's  got  the  spit  of  it  on  the  table;"  it 
was  Mrs.  Bodinar  who  set  the  match  to  the  tow  of 
Billy's  suspicions.  "And,"  said  he,  with  a  look  at 
Scantlebury,  "I  think  we'll  clear  it  up  privately,  since 
it  seems  rather  a  domestic  matter. ' ' 

The  assayer  vanished  and  Mrs.  Bodinar  flattened  her 
bulbous  body  against  the  bulkhead. 

"Now,"  said  Knyvett,  "I  don't  want  to  put  anybody 
to  an  inconvenience,  but  .  .  .  since  Mrs.  Bodinar 
has  been  good  enough  to  take  an  interest  in  the  contents 
of  my  desk — 

"You'll  not  get  anything  out  of  me,  sir,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"No?  Then  your  husband  and  I'll  settle  it.  The 
photograph  on  my  desk  is  that  of  a  man  whose  ac- 
quaintance I've  long  wished  to  make.  So  do  several 
other  people,  it  seems.  And  you  evidently  know  him 
well.  What  we  want  is  an  introduction." 

He  fixed  his  glance  on  Mrs.  Bodinar  who  stood  with 
her  mouth  primmed  up,  like  a  cat  at  a  polite  tea-party, 
but  he  watched  Simon  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

"Was  this  man  by  any  chance  Reuben  Py croft  whom 
you  met  at  Coronel  ? ' ' 

A  slight  quiver  of  Mr.  Bodinar 's  eyelids  warned 
him. 

"Well,  not  Reuben  Py  croft  always.  No  doubt  he  has 
plenty  of  aliases.  Now,"  he  asked,  suddenly  turning, 
"what  did  he  give  you  that  gold-dust  for? 

"Payment!  that's  what  the  twelve  pounds'  worth 
of  gold  meant.  You'd  evidently  been  useful  to  him. 
It  looks  fishy — combined  with  what  the  Consul  writes 
me. 


PACTOLUS  331 

"Mrs.  Bodinar  knows,  I  see.  But  I  think  we'll  keep 
her  out  of  it." 

' '  I  '11  not  go,  so  there ! ' '  panted  Bessie.  ' '  Simon,  thee 
a't  a  fule.  Why  don't  'ee  speak  out  and  say  you've 
naught  to  do  with  it  ? " 

Suddenly  Bodinar  went  down  with  a  run,  like  an 
eight-day  clock  when  the  weights  collapse. 

"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"  he  chortled  in  his  beard.  "You 
can't  clap  me  in  chokey,  Captain  Billy  Knyvett.  And 
what  a  mare's  nest  you've  run  your  head  into,  too. 
Lord!  it's  as  good  as  a  play.  Don't  'ee  see  yourself 
a-leading  me  along  a  victim  to  the  slaughter,  with  gar- 
lands on  my  forehead  and  bells  on  my  toes?  Did  you 
think  you'd  see  me  swing  for  this?  Didn't  I  know 
there 'd  be  rigs  o'  Dover  when  one  o'  the  gentry  found 
he  'd  been  had  ? ' '  He  snapped  his  fingers  every  moment 
nearer  to  Knyvett 's  face. 

"Simon!  Simon!  you  fule-head,"  shouted  Bessie  in 
agony.  "Why  Keuben  Py croft's  nobody  but  Harry 
Marks." 

"Harry  Marks?"  said  Billy  struggling  with  a  mem- 
ory. 

"Ay,"  said  Bodinar,  "what  was  wanted  for  the  mur- 
der o'  Tom  Rendle,  the  manager  of  the  Plymouth  print- 
ings works  whose  books  he'd  been  playing  Old  Harry 
with.  Cashier  he  was.  And  Rendle  found  with  a  bul- 
let in  his  head  in  the  counting  house  after  he'd  been 
having  a  go  at  the  books  the  night  before.  But  he  got 
away  ? ' ' 

"And  you  found  him  in  Coronel?" 
.    Bodinar   nodded.     "He   was   doing   well   there,   too. 
Funky  sort  of  a  chap.     Didn't  want  to  move  on." 

"And  Mrs.  Bodinar  knew  him?" 

"  He 's  her  cousin. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Billy,  "you've  done  me.  But  what  did 
you  get  by  it,  after  all?  For  you've  had  your  bad  times, 
that  I'll  swear." 


332  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"This,"  answered  Bodinar,  "that  I've  got  the  laugh- 
ing side  of  one  of  the  damned  gentry.  Drawed  'em 
along,  I  did,  like  rats  after  a  bit  o'  bacon,  they  that 
lay  down  the  law  and  treat  us  poor  devils  same  as 
they  might  the  mud  beneath  their  feet,  the  dirty  snobs. 
They  that  take  the  education  for  theirselves  and  look 
down  on  us,  cos  us  got  none.  But  what  sort  o'  stuff 
do  they  cram  our  chillern  with?  Something  that's 
good  enough  for  the  damned  workingmen.  Shut  up," 
he  shouted  to  his  wife,  "I'll  speak  out  for  once.  And 
you,  haven't  you  toted  'em  along  in  your  way,  too? 

"Off  Diego  Ramirez,  where  the  Ildefonsos  roar, 
There's  gold,  there's  gold,  there's  gold  galore." 

He  swung  himself  out  of  the  room,  his  own  man  for 
once. 

Later  on  Mrs.  Bodinar  came  to  the  saloon. 

"Well,"  asked  Billy  with  a  smile,  "is  he  covered  up 
yet?  For  I  was  just  looking  into  a  brain  with  the  lid  off, 
Bessie.  There  now,  don't  you  worry,  who  am  I  that  I 
should  grudge  a  fellow  creature  a  bit  of  heaven  at  my 
expense. ' ' 

Mrs.  Bodinar  went  out  to  make  Simon  a  particularly 
fine  squab  pie,  out  of  Billy 's  onions,  and  cold-storage  mut- 
ton, for  she,  too,  approved  of  a  decent  spoiling  of  the 
Egyptians. 

"Peter,"  said  Billy,  as  they  went  on  deck  together, 
"have  you  ever  done  anything  when  you  were  up  in 
the  bough  and  then  regretted  it  when  you  came  to 
earth?" 

Peter  kept  silence,  trying  to  get  the  meaning  of  this 
cryptic  speech. 

"Sara  will  be  by  now  about  where  the  sea-fire  begins 
to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  ship,"  Billy  went  on,  leaning 
over  the  taffrail.  "It  must  seem  to  her  like  a  bad 
dream  this  .  .  .  this  Antarctic  twilight.  So  it  does 
to  me." 


PACTOLWS  333 

By  his  voice  Peter  knew  that  he  was  very  far  from 
the  arboreal  stage  just  then.  From  the  port-hole  below 
came  the  sound  of  a  man  snoring  in  the  knots  and  un- 
tyings  of  his  first  sleep. 

"Bodinar?"  twinkled  Billy.  "Well,  there's  one 
happy  man  aboard.  Shall  we  ever  lay  salt  on  the  tail  of 
Keuben  Pycroft,  alias  Harry  Marks?" 

But  they  never  did;  nor  did  Mrs.  Bodinar  ever  know 
the  "outs"  of  her  dream.  But  she  always  maintains 
that  Pycroft  got  his  quietus  that  night. 

For  over  on  the  moors  by  Great  Kneeset,  the  pair  live 
on  the  glorious  memory  of  the  fairy  gold  in  the  region 
of  the  Ildefonsos.  Moreover,  Bodinar  still  has  the 
Pendragon's  chronometer,  though  Billy  can't  imagine 
what  became  of  it.  Mrs.  Bodinar,  however,  regards  it 
as  an  heirloom, 


CHAPTER  XVI 

METIER  DE  PEMME,  THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW;  IN  THIS  VIN 
HEREFORD  SHUFFLES  OFF  THE  DOMESTIC  COIL,  MRS. 
KNYVETT  RETRIEVES  A  SITUATION  AND  SIGNOR  GUARINI 
DOES  A  LITTLE  DIGGING. 

r|^HEY  sat  at  Craneham  holding  a  court  of  enquiry 
-*•  into  the  crime  of  Sara  Bellew,  nee  Hereford.  It 
was  the  tender  time  of  the  blossoming  of  the  pear  tree, 
and  the  scented  snow  of  spring  blew  in  gusts  across  the 
lawn  before  the  southwest  wind.  The  apple-green  of 
the  evening  sky  delighted  old  Vin's  eyes,  even  as  his 
daughter's  deeds  satisfied  his  soul,  for  the  clear  shining 
of  the  west  was  on  his  reverend  white  head,  the  clear 
lucidity  of  intellectual  delight  in  his  heart,  since  Sara 
had  run  away  from  her  husband,  thereby  proving  what 
he  had  always  upheld,  her  fitness  for  wifehood.  Mrs. 
"Woodruff e  listened,  as  one  shares  in  another's  misfor- 
tunes— with  joy  at  the  zest  of  them  and  yet  as  one  who 
watches  a  triumphant  display  of  casuistry,  marvellous 
proof  of  the  mental  mastery  of  the  race.  Anne  sim- 
mered in  ironic  delight;  only  Uncle  Pip  was,  being  a 
plain  man  and  slow,  most  unfeignedly  miserable. 

All  four  heads,  the  torso  of  Neptune,  the  bebugled, 
dew-lapped  frontage  of  the  matron,  the  coy,  sleek  comeli- 
ness of  the  maid,  the  rugged  massivity  of  the  farmer, 
were  bent  forward  into  a  circle  in  the  attitude  of  the 
quoit-thrower  while  as  into  a  witches'  brew  old  Vin 
threw  his  daughter's  life.  There  is  always  a  suggestion 
of  the  obscene  at  such  a  sight,  as  when  the  Almighty 
claws  the  spider,  man,  for  more  adequate  frying  over 
the  Pit. 

334 


METIER  DE  FBMMB  335 

"Yes,"  purred  Vin,  "Sara  was  a  pupil  of  Guarini, 
yes,  the  Guarini,  the  Italian  pianist,  of  humble  extrac- 
tion, but  a  master.  He  thought  highly  of  her  playing, 
wanted  her  to  wither,  a  barren  stalk  .  .  . " 

"Eh,"  said  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  laying  back  her  ears  at 
the  biblical  flavour,  "but  I  thought  she  never  had  any 
children. ' ' 

"A  barren  stalk,"  flowed  he  mellifluously,  like  a 
moorland  stream  that  refuses  to  be  dammed.  "I  speak, 
of  course,  of  her  potential  barrenness.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  wanted  her  unmarried.  But  I  was  firm.  He  actu- 
ally asked  me  to  hand  her  over  to  him  to  train.  '  Train, ' 
said  I,  '  does  very  well  as  a  word  to  apply  to  dirty  little 
urchins.  It  is  not  for  a  demoiselle.'  'Rachel?'  said  he, 
'Sarah  Siddons?'  He  used  to  spit  out  his  words  like 
an  infuriated  grimalkin. 

"  'One,'  said  I,  'the  daughter  of  a  Jew  peddler,  and 
the  other  of  a  strolling  player. '  But  he  was  equal  to  it. 
'Gentility,'  said  he  'feeds  like  a  Minotaur  on  the  brains 
of  fair  virgins.'  Then  Archer  came,  swam  into  our 
horizon  like  a  sun.  The  child  was  dazzled.  She  was 
a  woman,  only  fitted  for  wifehood.  My  intuitions  are 
always  trustworthy.  She  was — and  is — a  true  woman." 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  Uncle  Pip  groaned,  like  one  con- 
victed of  sin  at  a  conventicle. 

"Because  she's  bolted?"  snapped  Anne. 

"Because  she  felt  the  need  of  support,  of  that  tender 
solicitude  which  is  her  life,  every  lovely  woman's  life. 
One  man  fails  her,  she  seeks  another.  It  is  as  beautiful 
an  instance  in  its  way  of  Nature's  great  plan,  this  esca- 
pade of  our  dear  Sara,  as  the  leaves  with  their  oxygen, 
the  animals  with  their  carbonic  acid  gas.  Need  answers 
need  in  both  cases.  One  on  the  psychic,  the  other  on 
the  physical  plane.  One  sees  in  it  all — woman  clinging 
to  man;  man  so  ready  for  support — the  work  of  the 
Great  Artificer.  I  know  of  no  more  lovely  instance  than 
this  of  divine  brain  work." 


336  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"What  a  beautiful  thought!"  cried  Mrs.  Woodruff e, 
with  the  far-seeing  gaze  that  accompanies  cosmic  vision. 
' '  It  shows  how  differently  the  higher  mind  regards  these 
things.  The  facts  in  themselves  so  crude,  so  painfully 
crude.  A  woman  elopes;  so  it  seems  to  the  vulgar. 
And  to  your  mind — this." 

She  made  play  with  hands  delicately  gloved,  thus 
proving  herself  of  the  Thrice-Born  in  Eastern  imagery. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Uncle  Pip,  under  the  peine  forte 
et  dure,  "and  the  child's  future  unknown;  her  name 
dragged  in  the  mud.  And  no  chance  of  whitewashing. 
I'm  a  hog,  but  I'm  damned  if  I  ain't  glad  to  be." 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  raised  pained  eyebrows;  she  saw  in 
her  inward  eye  his  hayricks,  pigsties,  et  cetera;  she  was 
in  fact  quite  visibly  declining  the  noun  agricola. 

"Good  old  boy,"  beamed  Anne,  and  pinched  his 
arm. 

Mrs.  Woodruffe  heard  the  whisper;  it  aroused  her 
malice.  "And,"  she  said,  "I  came  away  all  in  a  twitter 
at  the  idea  of  the  thing  happening  to  a  family  I  know ; 
the  courts,  the  cross-examining — dreadful!  I  thought 
of  my  daughter,  so  intimate  as  she  has  been  with  Mrs. 
Bellew.  I  really  don't  mind  confessing  now  that  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  give  Molly  just  a  word  about 
being  careful.  A  young  wife,  you  see!  Of  course  I 
should  never  have  minded  for  myself." 

"I  hope,"  said  Anne  demurely,  "that  father  has 
shown  how  satisfactory  to  everyone  this  is.  To  prove 
a  law  of  Nature!  What  could  be  lovelier?  I'll  make 
a  note  of  it  to  tell  Sara. ' ' 

"If  every  parent  had  acted,"  continued  Vin,  "as 
firmly  as  I,  we  should  never  have  seen  the  appalling  de- 
velopments of  these  later  days.  Up  till  now  the  one 
creature  that  has  sunk  all  things  before  the  call  of  race 
has  been  woman.  She  has  held  nothing  back — not  even 
personality,  in  order  to  hand  on  the  torch  of  life. 
Woman,"  he  boomed,  "has  been  the  saviour  of  the  race, 


METIER  DE  FEMME  337 

Claiming  nothing,  she  has  given  all.  Up  till  to-day,  this 
fatal  day.  But  the  Eastern  woman  is  still  faithful ;  the 
most  beautiful  custom  of  which  I  have  ever  heard  is  that 
of  the  youngest  and  loveliest  Japanese  maidens  who 
offer  themselves  for  a  few  years  on  the  altar  of  those 
passions  that  replenish  the  race." 

"Or  that  don't — in  the  form  you  mean,"  interposed 
Anne. 

' '  Thank  Heaven, ' '  said  he,  ' '  I  have  one  daughter  who 
is  still  a  woman." 

''I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Anne,  unable  any 
longer  to  keep  her  secret,  "  there  have  been  some  sur- 
prises. Sara  is  coming  back  from  her  Antarctic  ex- 
ploration. I  heard  this  morning." 

"Rather  strange  if  she  didn't,"  snapped  he,  "the 
South  Pole  is  scarcely  the  place  in  which  one  would 
choose  to  reside." 

"But  she's  coming  back  alone." 

Uncle  Pip  rose,  slowly  lengthening  out  like  an  uncoil- 
ing boa-constrictor. 

"Then  Knyvett's  dead?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  He's  joined  the  staff  of  engineers 
on  the  Andean  railway." 

' '  You  mean  she  did  not  get  out  in  time  to  catch  him ! 
Now  that's  just  a  woman's  management,  of  course.  Tut, 
tut,  tut.  That's  Mrs.  Knyvett,  without  a  doubt,"  said 
Vin. 

"On  the  contrary,  they  met,  she  stayed  a  few  days, 
but  they  have  parted." 

"And  she  comes  back  alone!  Goodness  gracious!" 
shrieked  Mrs.  Woodruffe.  "Oh,  my  dear  child,  my 
heartfelt  sympathy  is  with  you.  But  how  abominably 
that  man  has  behaved.  His  mother  is  the  person  I  pity 
most.  What  a  reflection  on  her  upbringing.  I  never 
can  be  too  thankful  that  left  alone  as  I  was,  with  but 
one  fatherless  child,  it  turned  out  to  be  a  girl." 

"You  don't  understand,"  explained  Anne,  patiently 


338  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

lecturing,  "Sara  went  out  to  nurse  Mr.  Knyvett  and 
finding  him  recovered  she  is  returning  to  take  up  her 
profession,  where  father  made  her  lay  it  down.  She 
has  lost  twelve  years  of  her  life,  of  course,  but  that,  I 
suppose,  must  happen  while  our  parents  experiment 
with  us." 

"And  you  expect  people  to  take  it  like  that!  Well, 
all  I  can  say — 

"Before  you  say  all  you  can,  I  should  like  to  remind 
you,  Mrs.  Woodruffe,  that  an  affair  like  this  is  one  in 
which  each  person  reflects  his  own  nature.  Don't  give 
yourself  away,  that's  all." 

"Anne,"  said  Uncle  Pip,  "you're  a  brick.  This  is 
what  I've  been  waiting  for.  If  I've  said  it  to  Hatty 
once,  I've  said  it  a  hundred  times — our  Sara's  as  clear 
as  the  day." 

' '  I  don 't  think  I  was  so  far  wrong, ' '  said  Anne,  catch- 
ing Mrs.  Woodruff e's  eye. 

That  lady,  fearing  a  woman  adversary,  fell  on  the 
man. 

"And  let  me  tell  you,"  she  said,  turning  to  Mr.  Haw- 
kins, "that  from  your  very  position  you  are,  of  course, 
ignorant  of  the  world.  But  you  should  really  have  the 
sense  to  leave  this  kind  of  thing  to  the  people  who  under- 
stand it. ' ' 

"Well,  I'm—" 

"No,  no,  don't  let  us  have  any  of  these  rough  quarter- 
deck expressions.  It  used  to  be  allowed  before  ladies, 
but  it's  quite  gone  out  now,  Mr.  Hawkins." 

But  Mr.  Hereford  was  not  to  be  caught  out ;  his  mind 
was  as  pliable  to  new  forms  as  an  astral  body. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  am  far  from  being  a  laudator  tem- 
poris  acti,  but  now  this  proves  what  I  have  always  said, 
that  with  genius  goes  moral  irregularity.  Sara  is  a 
genius ;  she  cannot,  therefore,  bow  to  the  Ten  Command- 
ments. Art  flourished  in  times  like  Cellini's,  when  mo- 
rality was  a  topic  no  man  took  lightly  on  his  lips — which, 


MJ3TIER  DE  FEMME  339 

in  fact,  the  majority  never  took  on  their  lips  at  all.  To 
that  age  belongs  Sara,  that  sacred  age." 

In  the  full  flood  of  his  eloquence,  they  thought  he 
scarcely  noted  that  Sara  had  been  generous  to  him; 
having  no  intention  of  returning  to  bondage,  she  had 
made  over  to  him  before  she  left  England  a  deed  of  gift 
bestowing  Craneham  on  him  for  his  lifetime.  He  was 
happier  than  he  had  been  for  a  long  time  in  the  prospect 
of  release  from  those  gaolers,  his  daughters. 

"Anne,"  said  he  that  night,  "you  will  be  wanting  to 
get  back  to  your  work;  we  will  write  out  an  advertise- 
ment for  a  cultivated  housekeeper  with  a  musical  voice. 
We  have  capital  servants  who  are  very  attentive  to  me. 
It  is  only  Elizabeth  who  presumes.  These  old  retainers 
are  more  trouble  than  they  are  worth." 

So  Elizabeth  found  herself  adrift — and  happy.  For 
could  she  not  go  straight  to  Madame  Sara? 

"Mon  Dieu,"  cried  she,  when  Anne  parrotted,  "ought 
we  to  leave  him?  Mon  Dieu,  and  if  the  Blessed  One 
opens  the  cell  door  by  a  crack,  is  not  that  a  sign  that 
He  means  a  thin  one  to  get  through  ?  And  neither  thou 
nor  I,  petite  Anne,  is  a  gross  cabbage.  Besides,  nothing 
suits  the  messieurs  better  than  a  change  of  women. ' ' 

"When  will  he  want  us  back,  think  you?"  asked 
Anne. 

' '  When  he  hath  his  winter  pains, ' '  answered  Elizabeth. 
"Meanwhile  there  is  the  summer  before  us." 

So  they  took,  both  of  them,  that  sunny  road  to  liberty 
which  so  often  begins  with  the  purchase  of  a  railway- 
ticket.  They  met  Sara  when  she  landed,  Elizabeth  cur- 
vetting, in  spirit  at  any  rate,  like  a  ram  in  mountain 
pastures.  The  green  mist  of  trees  against  the  London 
smoke  was  a  promise  of  new  life  to  Sara.  Also  with 
these  two  there  was  no  need  of  explanations ;  they  made 
holiday,  therefore,  that  queer  trio,  for  twenty-four  hours, 
till  Anne  went  to  her  work  and  Sara  to  Mrs.  Knyvett ;  it 
was,  somehow,  a  shuddery  thing  to  do. 


340  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Then,  in  the  softly  lighted  drawing-room,  with  the  rose 
of  the  sunset  shining  through  the  tree  branches  outside, 
she  waited,  the  room  wavering  before  her  eyes,  as  though 
it  were  a  cabin.  For,  in  the  capacity  of  a  new  Sara,  she 
was  afraid  of  Billy's  mother.  She  had  played  too  deep 
a  part  in  the  older  woman's  life  to  be  sure  of  her  re- 
ception. 

But  when  Mrs.  Knyvett  held  her  in  an  all-comprehen- 
sive embrace  as  though  the  world  were  reeling  beneath 
their  feet  she  felt  as  though  that  fair  ship,  the  Sara, 
had  flung  out  grappling  irons  on  solid  earth.  They 
sat  down  in  silence  till  the  great  homely  tabby  leapt  on 
the  visitor 's  lap  and  with  its  soft  purr  and  discreetly  in- 
quisitive nose  awoke  her  from  dream  to  a  perception  of 
the  lonely  road  before  her.  Tabby  was  so  safely  an- 
chored. Mrs.  Knyvett  understood. 

"My  dear,"  she  cried,  "I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen 
to  you  for  forty  thousand  pounds. ' ' 

"It  was  quite  the  best  thing  possible,"  said  Sara, 
"there  are  so  many  who  never  find  themselves.  Billy 
and  I  have  done  that,  anyway.  And — you've  got  your 
wish.  Billy's  out  of  the  wood;  he's  gone  back  to  his 
work.'1 

"But  in  what  a  fashion!  That  a  son  of  mine  should 
act  like  this!  With  every  obligation — " 

It  was  the  one  note  she  should  not  have  struck ;  too  late 
she  saw  it. 

"Love,"  said  Sara,  "has  nothing  to  do  with  obliga- 
tion. And  the  fool-talk  about  honour  has  trapped  us  all 
too  long.  Too  many  crimes  have  been  committed  in  that 
name. ' ' 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  "I've  written  a 
letter  to  him. ' ' 

"And  sent  it?"  asked  Sara,  rising,  very  white  and 
still. 

"No,  it's  not  sent.     You  can  read  it,  if  you  like." 


METIER  DE  FEMME  341 

Sara  took  the  paper,  glanced  through  it,  and  laid  it 
down.  Then,  head  held  back,  till  the  breadth  of  its 
strong  oval  became  apparent,  she  said  quietly : 

"You'll  not  send  it.  For  if  you  do  he'll  come  back  as 
a  man  might — to  marry  his  mistress." 

They  were  both  silent,  yet  they  understood;  Mrs. 
Knyvett's  courage  rose. 

"But  he  was  pledged  tacitly — all  these  years,"  she 
said,  knowing  all  the  time  that  the  battle  was  lost. 
"And,"  she  asked,  "don't  you  realise  what  a  difference 
all  this  has  made  ? ' ' 

Sara  laughed ;  there  was  something  so  fresh  and  young 
in  the  sound  that  Mrs.  Knyvett  positively  jumped. 
"Oh,  perfectly,"  she  said,  "they'll  wave  all  the  silly 
fripperies  that  are  supposed  to  make  up  a  woman's  life 
at  me.  But  Billy  lives  outside  all  that.  Haven't  you 
ever  realised  what  damnable  tyranny  it  is  that  free 
things  can't  live  out  their  freedom?  Respectability ! 
who  'd  care  for  it  if  it  wasn  't  a  part  of  the  stock  in  trade 
by  which  one  gets  one's  living.  And  at  best  it  merely 
means  keeping  sin  furtive.  For  folks  like  Uncle  Pip 
I'm  sorry.  That's  all." 

"I  suffer,  too,  Sara." 

"Not  so  much  as  you  imagine.  And  you  wouldn't  at 
all  if  you  just  went  down  into  your  own  mind  and 
acknowledged  what  you  saw  there.  May  I  tear  this 
up?" 

' '  Yes, ' '  said  Mrs.  Knyvett,  for,  torn  between  the  world 
of  show  and  the  world  of  fact,  she  had  come  over  to  the 
world  of  fact,  confessing  that  all  the  solid  fruits  of  vic- 
tory were  hers.  Then  she  lifted  up  her  heart  and 
planned  a  campaign  in  which  dinners,  receptions,  and 
theatre  parties  formed  the  siege-work. 

"By  all  the  fools  in  Christendom,"  cried  she,  "we'll 
knock  their  nasty  notions  all  to  bits.  Mrs.  Archer  Bellew 
shall  drop  her  flag  to  no  impish  satyr." 


342  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"But  Mr.  Archer  Bellew,  where  is  he?"  asked  Sara. 
''I've  searched  the  papers  since  I  got  back  and  found 
not  a  word. ' ' 

"Riding  a  camel  in  the  Sahara,  they  say.  Anyway 
he's  lost  in  African  wilds  and  there'll  be  no  dramatic 
curtain  a  I'  Americaine.  You  can  enjoy  your  nutter 
safely." 

"Umm,"  meditated  Sara,  "I  suppose  I  can  take  a 
month  to  bury  my  dead.  Then  I  ?m  off — to  Guarini. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  my  dear,  won 't  it  be  gorgeous  ?  Cards  to  meet 
my  daughter-in-law  that  should  be,  returned  from  an 
unofficial  honeymoon  in  the  South  Pole. ' ' 

"But—" 

"My  love,  there's  no  better  way  in  the  world  than  a 
scandal  for  separating  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  your 
true  friends  from  your  false  ones.  The  day  of  judg- 
ment's a  fool  to  it.  And  this  has  been  positively  the 
dullest  season  on  record." 

So  they  settled  to  the  fray;  there  were  some  lively 
engagements,  more  especially  cuts  direct  from  small 
people,  small  usually  in  both  senses  of  the  word.  It  was 
discovered  that  the  morality  of  persons  "on  the  make" 
was  particularly  sensitive,  though  a  few  there  were  that 
oscillated.  Among  these  was  that  fair  provincial,  Mrs. 
Stephen  Anerley,  whose  glacial  coldness  in  the  afternoon 
was  atoned  for  by  a  tropic  warmth  at  night,  a  warmth 
in  which  it  was  difficult  to  discover  whether  self-interest 
or  simple  friendliness  was  the  motive  spring. 

At  last  Margaret  Rossiter  returned  to  town  and  Mrs. 
Knyvett  took  Sara  to  call.  The  small  woman  in  the 
white  furs  seemed  strangely  familiar  to  Mrs.  Bellew; 
they  talked  at  once  as  those  who  can  plumb  the  deep 
waters  together.  Mrs.  Knyvett,  seeing  this,  went  on  to 
another  function. 

"You  know,"  said  Sara,  "that  I've  left— Archer,  that 
I  'm  not  going  back  to  him. ' ' 

"So  I've  heard." 


METIER  DE  FEMME  343 

"It  was  for  his  sake — at  first,"  said  Sara. 

"But  not  now?"  asked  Margaret,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 
She  had  acquired  a  quite  abysmal  calm  that  was  strange 
in  a  being  so  mercurial. 

"  No ;  it 's  for  my  own  now. ' ' 

"I'm  glad,"  commented  Margaret. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  think  you  may  have  acted  under  a  mis- 
apprehension. Didn  't  you  ? ' '  she  asked,  suddenly  bend- 
ing forward  and  laying  a  hand  on  Sara's  knee. 

"You  thought  I  could  go  back,"  said  Margaret,  "per- 
haps you  think  so  still  ? ' ' 

"I'm  not  so  sure  now,"  hesitated  Sara. 

"No?"  asked  Margaret.  "Well,  you're  right.  It 
isn't  that  all  this" — she  pointed  to  the  pictures — "is 
worth  more  to  me  than  he  is.  It  is  that — 

She  broke  off  and  nodded  towards  the  table  where  a 
new  novel  lay  open. 

"You've  read  that?"  she  asked. 

Sara  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  it's  Archer's  new  book.  And  it's  a  failure. 
He's  tried  to  put  down  the  commonplace,  every-day 
things  that  make  up  our  days.  It  takes  a  great  man  to 
do  that — to  show  the  commonplace  and  the  beauty  under 
it,  for  when  he  can't  show  the  beauty,  he  just  shows  his 
own  vulgarity." 

Suddenly  something  in  Sara  broke,  some  pride,  some 
pity ;  it  has  no  name. 

"Margaret,"  she  cried,  "think  of  what  he  was  to  you, 
the  man  you  are  dissecting." 

The  other  flushed,  trembled ;  she  heard  the  tinkling  fall 
of  shattered  glass.  All  the  woman  in  her  swayed,  rose 
to  her  lips.  Sara  held  out  her  arms. 

"My  dear,  you  do — still." 

"Yes,  I  do.  But  that  never  prevents  one  from  see- 
ing, you  know.  Not  really,  though  one  may  pretend. 
Take  the  plain  truth ;  he  wasn't  made  to  love  women  like 


344  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

you  and  me.  He'd  never  find  the  best  of  life  with  us. 
A  little  toy  with  tinkling  jewels,  a  gazelle-eyed  Zoraida, 
she  would  give  the  best  he  could  get  from  a  woman.  But 
you  and  I?  No.  It  takes  a  bigger  man  than  the  poor 
knave  of  hearts  to  love  you  or  me. ' ' 

' '  But  to  help  ? ' '  asked  Sara.     ' '  Ought  we  not  ? " 

Then  Margaret  flashed  into  laughter.  "My  dear," 
she  said,  "the  Lord  may  have  made  us  women  prigs, 
but  He  generally  also  makes  us  discover  our  humour  on 
the  threshold  of  the  nuptial  chamber. ' ' 

"No,  no,  no,"  cried  Sara,  "only  when  we  approach 
our  meridian  and  have  known  many  men." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Margaret,  rubbing  the 
tip  of  her  nose.  Then  she  added:  "That's  the  devil  of 
it." 

And  they  both  laughed,  being  well  able  to,  since 
neither  was  a  straw  blown  by  the  gale  nor  an  ^Eolian 
harp  touched  by  the  winds  of  passion. 

Two  days  later  Giovanni  Guarini  sat  in  his  pleasant 
seaward-looking  room  in  the  Breton  fishing  town  he 
visited  every  year.  Plentifully  bedewed  with  snuff,  his 
deep-wrinkled  face  shone  with  good  humour.  Overhead 
hung  the  wonderful  portrait  that  went  everywhere  with 
him,  from  Russia  to  the  States ;  it  was  a  Rembrandtesque 
study  of  an  old  peasant  woman,  his  mother  in  fact. 

"She,"  as  he  would  say,  pointing  to  it,  "that  made  me 
what  I  am." 

The  toil-worn  hands  planted  firmly  on  the  knees,  the 
withered  face  expressed  a  force,  a  gripping  power  that 
was  repeated  in  her  son;  the  shapeless  bedgown  drawn 
across  the  hanging  breasts  hid  a  strength  and  fibre  that 
had  something  in  it  of  the  tenuous,  yet  wiry  resistance 
of  the  taut  string.  And  in  the  eyes  was  the  tenderness, 
the  unflinching  power  to  face  dark  things  that  only 
mother-eyes  can  show.  She  had  known  the  grinding 
poverty  of  a  lifetime  of  toil,  had  looked  on  dead  sons, 
had  smiled  upon  the  living.  They  called  the  portrait 


METIER  DE  FEMME  345 

Guarini's  mascot.  And  every  year  he  found  time  to 
slip  away  from  grand  cities  to  live  like  a  village  crony, 
renewing  his  youth  in  memory. 

Just  now  the  musician  in  him  was  merged  in  the 
archaeologist.  The  parlour  reeked  of  pipes,  the  air 
hurtled  with  furious  terms,  only  at  the  far  end  of  the 
stivy  room  the  polished  surface  of  the  grand  piano  shone 
like  a  mirror.  It  had,  indeed,  been  dusted  by  Giovanni's 
own  big  silk  handkerchief ;  for  on  it  no  man  but  his  sec- 
retary dared  to  lay  sacrilegious  hand. 

"Phut!  my  dear  Abbe,"  cried  the  great  Guarini,  "but 
thou  art  a  jester  of  the  first  rank!"  He  crossed  his 
hands  in  cosy  appreciation  of  the  other 's  humour. 

"I  am  not  joking,  Signor,"  said  the  Abbe  Porchere. 
' '  I  asserted  it  as  a  fact,  on  my  faith  as  a  genealogist  and 
historian.  The  line  of  descent  of  the  Porcheres  from 
Baldwin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  fought  by  the  side  of  Wil- 
liam the  Norman,  and  was  rewarded  by  him  with  a  grant 
of  broad  lands,  is  crystal  clear.  I,"  said  he  haughtily, 
"am  the  last  of  the  line  of  Bras-de-Fer." 

"Thou,"  shrieked  Guarini,  snapping  his  fingers  furi- 
ously, "thou  to  give  ear  to  a  legend  so  palpably  false. 
Why,  then,  the  change  of  name?  Why  Bras-de-Fer 
to  Porchere?  On  what  dost  thou  found  this  state- 
ment?" 

"On  genealogy,  on  documents.  I  am  a  man  who  be- 
lieves in  the  written  word,  Signor.  And  as  for  the 
change  of  name,  bah,  it  is  a  mere  bagatelle.  Look  at 
the  estate  of  my  family,  the  estate  of  Ferrebras." 

"Ferrebras!"  cried  the  musician,  "Ferrebras,  in  the 
valley  of  St.  Ouen!  A  miserable  little  starveling  of  a 
place  with  nothing  in  it  but  sheep.  Does  a  great  baron 
retire  to  St.  Ouen?" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  close  to  Porchere 's  nose. 

"The  heart  of  the  richest  land  in  Normandy,"  said 
the  Abbe  Porchere  unmoved.  "Compare  the  arms  of 
Bras-de-Fer  and  of  the  Porcheres.  It  is  almost  the 


346  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

same — in  both  a  cubit-arm  erect  holding  in  the  hand  a 
sword  all  proper." 

There  hurtled  through  the  air  shouts  of  gules,  chevron- 
els,  martlets,  passant,  guardant,  till  the  household  out- 
side told  its  beads  furiously  in  horror  at  the  devils  whom 
the  master  was  invoking. 

"From  canting  heraldry  thou  canst  deduce  anything," 
cried  Guarini.  "Besides,  there  is  a  hiatus  in  the  line 
of  descent,  and  as  for  Porchere,  'tis  naught  but  a  female 
swineherd.  The  connection  is  none  too  creditable  to 
Bras-de-Fer. " 

"He  trumpeteth  still,"  cried  Guarini 's  man  to  the 
assembled  Bretons.  "But,"  he  whispered  after  a  time, 
"there  is  a  lull." 

And  so  there  was  for  a  time,  till  the  two  struck  on 
an  even  worse  subject — the  question  of  the  date  of  a 
prehistoric  barrow  on  the  hill  farm.  Signor  Guarini 
would  have  it  to  be  pre-Christian,  cyst  or  urn-burial, 
therefore,  while  Mr.  Porchere  was  of  the  opposite 
opinion. 

"Pre-Christian!"  shouted  Guarini. 

"Extended  burial!"  cried  Mr.  Porchere. 

That  night  there  was  a  bright  moon.  In  the  silvery 
radiance  of  it  two  dark  figures  crept  up  the  hill,  one 
with  a  pickaxe,  the  other  with  a  spade,  for  the  mystery 
of  Bras-de-Fer  was  insoluble;  but  a  barrow  can  be 
opened. 

The  same  idea  had  struck  them  both,  but  the  sight  of 
each  other  was  startling.  They  fell  back  and  trembled. 

"You!"  cried  M.  Porchere. 

' '  You ! ' '  cried  Guarini.  Then  he  roused  himself.  ' '  It 
is  well,"  said  he,  "we  will  work  together." 

They  felt  like  ghouls  when  they  first  fell  on  that 
barrow,  for  the  noise  of  the  pickaxe  was  unseemly. 

"Hist!"  exclaimed  M.  1'Abbe  at  last.  There  was  a 
suffocating  moment  as  a  gigantic  shadow  approached — 
the  shade,  no  doubt,  of  neolithic  man.  The  Abbe  was 


METIER  DE  FEMME  347 

bald,  as  well  as  tonsured,  but  his  fringe  of  hair  rose. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  shouted  lungs  of  brass.  "It's  Monsieur 
1'Abbe  digging  up  the  grave  of  my  grandfather's  old 
mare.  She'd  been  too  fine  a  brood  mare  for  aught  but 
honourable  burial,  so  he  opened  the  old  barrow." 

At  these  words  Signor  Guarini  picked  up  his  wits. 
' '  The  old  barrow, ' '  he  asked,  ' '  and  what  did  thy  grand- 
father find  therein  when  he  laid  in  it  the  animal?" 

"Why,  an  old  urn  with  a  lot  of  ashes." 

"Then,"  cried  the  savants  together,  "it  was  pre- 
Christian.  ' ' 

"You  were  right,"  cried  the  Abbe,  "your  instinct, 
like  your  music,  is  masterly.  And,"  he  confessed  gen- 
erously, "there  is  a  hiatus  in  the  line  of  Bras-de-Fer, 
and  I  have  found  a  cubit-arm  erect  in  no  less  than  five 
fields." 

"Embrace  me,  mon  ami/'  said  Monsieur  Guarini, 
much  moved.  "That  madness  of  thine  hath  passed." 

"But  who,"  asked  the  farmer,  "is  to  tidy  up  the  mess 
you've  made?" 

"  I  '11  send  up  a  man  to-morrow, ' '  said  Guarini,  taking 
snuff  and  joyously  seizing  the  Abbe  by  the  arm.  They 
returned  to  the  town  in  love  and  good  fellowship. 
Hence  it  befell  that  the  Italian  received  the  news  in 
all  good  humour  when  they  told  him  that  an  English 
madame  was  waiting  for  him  and  would  take  no  refusal. 
He  bent  his  shaggy  brows  over  the  card. 

"As  sure,"  said  he,  "as  the  Lord  made  little  apples, 
this  is  Sara  Hereford,  la  petite  Sara,  come  back  from 
the  tomb  of  wedlock.  Send  in  champagne  and  cakelets 
and  go,  all  of  ye,  to  bed. ' ' 

"So,  so,"  he  cried,  clasping  his  visitor's  hands  and 
leading  her  over  to  the  light,  "it  is.  And  the  husband* 
He  is  dead?" 

Sara  laughed  gaily  at  his  joy  in  Bellew  's  demise. 

"Not  quite  that,"  she  said,  and  told  her  story. 

"Ha!"  cried  he,  "you  want  to  come  back?"     Then, 


348  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

suddenly  darting  forth  a  claw,  he  shook  a  forefinger  at 
her. 

"And  what  has  done  it,  this?" 

She  tried  to  tell  him. 

"So,"  said  he,  "the  lover  remains.  Ho!  Hum!  the 
lover  remains." 

He  was  twisting  his  mouth  into  wry  shapes  like  an 
india-rubber  baby  in  the  fingers  of  an  urchin. 

"Now,  play,"  he  commanded,  "play  what  pleases 
you." 

When  she  had  finished  he  leant  forward  and  tapped 
her  on  the  knee  three  times. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  come  here,  you  who  have  lost 
the  good  time  of  your  life,  and  you  say,  teach  me 
to  make  music.  You  haf  been  disappointed  in  lof. 
Heinf  Isn't  it  so?  Now  would  you  have  come  to  me 
if  this  second  man  had — what  you  call — opened  his 
arms?"  He  turned  himself  into  a  spread-eagle. 

"No." 

"No,  say  you.  Then  if  he  comes  back,  you  give  up 
this,  your  pis  aller  and  leave  poor  Guarini  in  the  lurch. 
No,  Madame  Sara,  not  on  these  terms. ' ' 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "listen.  Year  by  year,  we  are 
taught,  we  women,  to  live  by  love — that  it  is  our 
highest  word.  I  believed  it  till  I  was  shaken  out  of  the 
belief.  He,  my  lover,  had  his  work,  the  thing  he  was 
made  to  do.  He  put  it  first,  before  me.  Oh,  I  know ;  he 
said  it  was  that  7  had  not  made  up  my  mind.  But  I  had 
and  he  knew  it.  He  was  not  willing  to  be  distracted 
from  the  thing  there  was  before  him  to  do,  by  me.  I 
was  a  bird  in  hand.  He  would  not  take  me.  There 
would  have  been  fuss,  lawyers,  letter-writing.  He 
would  not  have  been  left  with  a  mind  free  to  his  task. 
I  saw  for  the  first  time  my  place  in  the  scheme  of 
things.  But — it  was  the  right  place.  I  am  only  a  light 
woman  till  I  can  do  my  work.  I  ask  you  to  help  me  to 
it.  If  you  won't,  I  go  to  another." 


METIER  DE  FEMME  349 

He  was  silent,  for  he  was  not  of  those  who  dare  to 
quench  the  smoking  flax. 

"But  he  will  come  back,"  he  said  at  last. 

"And  if  so,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  but  a  secret  place 
of  joy  for  us,  a  little  more  of  life  for  me  to  play  into  my 
music.  Do  you  not  know  how  love  lives?  By  those 
who  love  remaining  lovers.  It  is  not  the  menage  a  deux 
I  live  for.  I  should  still  do  my  work." 

"But,  per  Bacco,  there  may  be  bambini." 

"Will  they  be  the  worse  for  a  mother  who  works?" 

"And  that  same  is  what  nobody  knows,"  answered 
he  grimly.  "  It 's  for  you  and  your  like  to  prove  it. ' ' 

"Then  help  me.  Give  me  the  chance.  Ah,  Master, 
forget  it  is  a  woman. ' ' 

"I'm  not  likely  to  do  that,"  he  said,  lifting  the  light 
so  that  it  fell  on  the  old  woman's  face.  "She  worked," 
he  said  softly;  "I've  seen  her  carrying  home  the  fire- 
wood, a  fagot  twice  her  size,  lips  tight-pressed,  thin 
strong  arms  like  bands  of  iron.  Ah,  Madre  mia!"  he 
cried.  "I  was  born  with  a  black  eye  from  his  kick, 
my  father." 

"Help  me,  Master,"  said  Sara,  as  they  stood  gazing 
up  at  the  old  peasant  mother. 

"And  you'll  be  looking  to  do  something  to  show  what 
women  can  do,  thinking  of  all  the  others  whom  custom 
binds,  enslaves,  makes  toys  of?  Hey,  Madonna?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  answered  with  shining  eyes. 

Suddenly  he  altered  his  tone.  "But,"  he  said,  "the 
thing  you  want  to  serve  is  above  all  these  things.  Art 
is  no  luxury,  least  of  all  is  music;  it  is  the  thing  by 
which  man  learns  to  conquer  life.  High,  hard  service, 
it  demands.  I  play  the  buffoon — to  forget  for  an  hour. 
Only  for  an  hour,  though.  Look  you;  civilisation  gives 
power,  wealth,  ease,  leisure  to  the  few.  And  what  does 
all  this  make  them?  Beasts,  hogs,  swine.  The  things 
they  have  created  conquer  them.  The  one  man  who 
puts  them  all  beneath  his  feet  is  the  artist — and  only 


350  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

too  often  he  succumbs.  Poets,  artists,  writers,  down 
they  go  before  the  riot  of  life.  Then  they  are  no  longer 
artists.  For  four-square  above  ease  and  luxury  and 
passion  the  artist  must  stand. 

"Can  you  do  this?  True,  you  would  only  be  an  in- 
terpreter, but  you  would  want  it  all,  all  the  power,  none 
the  less.  And  you,  a  woman,  have,  above  all  other 
causes  of  weakness,  to  breast  the  waves  of  centuries  of 
inbred  indolence.  Can  you?  Can  you?" 

He  was  speaking  in  Italian ;  she  answered  in  the  same 
tongue. 

"I  can.     I  will." 

"Then — three  years  of  study,  alone.  In  Germany 
and  in  mine  own  land.  I  will  o'erwatch,  will  send  you 
where  you  can  find  what  you  want.  But  no  folly,  no 
weakness  of  the  woman,  no  lover!  And  no  starvation; 
the  artist  must  be  ascetic  in  the  midst  of  luxury;  must 
breathe  Sicilian  air  and  still  be  of  the  mountain  tops. 
'And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up  will  draw  all  men  unto  me'; 
that  is  true  of  the  artist,  but — he  must  first  be  lifted  up. 
Can  you  follow  this  high  path  ? ' ' 

She  thought  an  instant;  walked  to  the  window  and 
flung  up  the  sash.  The  sound  of  the  sea  filled  the 
room. 

"And  if  I  fail?"  she  asked,  turning  round,  "if  you 
cannot  make  me  what  you  think  you  may?" 

"Madonna,"  he  answered  gently,  "if  I  believed  that 
any  effort  is  ever  lost,  I  should  not  be  able  to  live.  I 
do  not  know  how  they  do  live  who  believe  we  cease  to  be 
of  the  Great  Breath  when  the  little  breath  we  borrowed 
passes  no  more  through  our  nostrils.  I  have  seen  so 
many  fail — here." 

"But  I  have  no  money  now." 

"It  shall  be  found.  You  will  pay  it  back  some  time. 
And  if  not,  not. ' ' 

Sara  remembered  the  night  at  Craneham  when  Anne 


METIER  DE  FEMME  351 

had  borrowed  a  loan  of  Billy;  she  was  ending  where 
Anne  had  begun. 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  the  old  man :  ' '  It  is  yes  ? ' ' 
asked  he. 

And  it  was  yes. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LA  SALLE  DES  PAS  PERDUS ;  IN  THIS   ANNE  SEES  A  VISION, 
GUARINI  PAYS  A  DEBT  AND  BELLEW  VIEWS  A  LOST  LAND. 

IT  was  four  years  later.  As  the  hansom  scraped  the 
kerbstone  Bellew's  glance  fell  full  on  a  woman  who 
was  standing  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  hall ;  he  saw  that 
it  was  Margaret  Rossiter.  With  a  bound  and  a  bow  he 
was  by  her  side ;  she  held  out  her  hand  cordially.  Grey 
fog,  shot  with  sunshine,  hid  the  street  vistas ;  in  the  clop- 
clop  of  the  horses'  feet,  the  scent  of  violets  and  the 
iridescence  of  the  air  there  was  a  sense  of  ease  and 
pleasure.  It  carried  the  man  and  woman  away  with  it 
on  a  wave  of  joy.  Bellew  handed  his  fare  to  the  cabby 
and  took  tickets  for  himself  and  Margaret. 

It  was  Sara's  first  performance  in  London  after  her 
three  years'  training  and  would  be  the  last  for  a  time, 
since  in  the  autumn  she  was  billed  for  the  States.  For 
the  old  fox,  Guarini,  had  not  sported  in  the  sea  of  suc- 
cess for  forty  years  without  knowing  the  lie  of  quick- 
sands, shoals  and  vigias.  For  a  year  he  had  piloted 
Sara  from  capital  to  capital;  there  now  remained  but 
London,  the  centre  of  a  country  that  still  every  first 
day  of  the  week  makes  ghastly  noises  on  harmoniums 
because  it  is  the  Sabbath.  England,  as  he  knew,  still 
bows  to  nothing  but  a  reputation.  Nor  can  even  a  great 
master  draw  the  same  crowd  twice,  since  he  is  regarded 
much  as  a  freak  show.  In  London,  then,  Guarini  had 
starred  the  boards  with  his  own  name,  thus  securing  an 
audience  for  Madame  Sara. 

From  window  to  window  across  the  heads  of  the 
audience  stretched  shafts  of  silver  fog,  the  dancing 

352 


,  LA  SALLE  DES  PAS  PERDUS  353 

place  for  motes.     Margaret  sank  down  in  her  seat  with 
a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"Looks  well,"  said  Bellew,  nodding  at  the  serried 
rows. 

"Guarini,  that  means,"  answered  she. 

"It  is  Sara's  show,  though,"  said  he,  after  a  glance 
at  his  programme. 

"  Guarini 's  cunning,  I  mean,"  she  laughed.  "They 
come  to  see  him,  but  it  is  Sara  they  will  really  hear. 
And  billed  together!  Just  think  of  what  that  means 
to  her." 

Out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  she  noted  him;  lean, 
lithe,  tanned,  with  the  quality  of  control  in  his  glance. 
Sara  had  been  right;  to  a  man  of  his  calibre  outward 
conformity  coupled  with  inward  revolt  had  been  the 
source  of  nothing  but  degradation.  Also  his  life  in  the 
East  was  evidently  more  to  his  taste ;  his  work  had  been 
better,  more  finished,  with  a  command  of  irony  he  had 
not  shown  before.  Most  men,  in  fact,  write  better  of 
English  life  away  from  England,  in  lands  where  one 
may  draw  breath  without  taking  lessons  on  the  scientific 
and  moral  aspect  of  the  breathing  apparatus. 

Yet  they  were  not  free,  he  and  Sara,  since  the  law 
could  offer  nothing  but  judicial  separation,  a  thing 
which  a  woman  of  power  can  perfectly  well  obtain,  for 
all  practical  purposes,  for  herself. 

"Look,  Peter,"  said  Anne,  touching  her  husband's 
arm  as  she  caught  sight  of  Margaret.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Westlake  had  only  just  managed  to  catch  a  noon  train 
from  the  midlands,  for  Anne's  practice  was  a  large 
one.  Now,  with  nerves  thrilling  like  the  strings  of  a 
violin,  she  waited  for  Sara's  appearance.  The  sisters 
had  not  met  for  four  years. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "how  wild  it  makes  me  to  think 
that  they  should  force  a  woman  like  Sara  to  go  through 
the  divorce  court  as  the  guilty  one  to  carve  out  an 
honest  life  for  them  all.  Why  in  the  world  didn't 


354  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

Bellew  create  a  scandal?     Then  there 'd  have  been  de- 
sertion and  unfaithfulness  on  his  side." 

"That,"  said  Peter,  nodding  towards  Margaret  and 
Archer,  "will  never  be." 

"And  what  does  that  matter?  Is  Sara  herself  never 
to  be  free?" 

"She  will  be  soon,"  said  he;  "Billy  lands  in  a  few 
days. ' ' 

"And  Sara — Sara — to  be  the  one  to  have  to  go 
through  the  mud  for  all  their  sakes.  I  tell  you,  I  see 
red." 

"Never  mind.     She's  above  it  all  now,"  said  Peter. 

"Nobody  is  above,  in  the  sense  you  mean,"  snapped 
Anne. 

But  from  the  shadows  at  the  back  of  the  platform, 
a  figure  had  emerged  into  the  light.  It  was  Guarini, 
standing  with  one  hand  on  the  Bechstein.  As  the  house 
rose  at  him,  Anne's  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears.  She 
had  caught,  as  one  may  when  the  cloud-cap  of  routine 
lifts  for  a  second,  a  glimpse  of  the  awful  contrast  be- 
tween the  top  and  bottom  of  the  ladder  that  we  call  the 
human.  Her  last  night  had  been  spent  in  the  chamber 
of  birth;  between  the  squalid,  pain-haunted  gateway  of 
life  and  the  power  in  that  punchinello  figure,  what  a 
distance  to  be  traversed! 

Soon  Sara  was  playing  the  Kreutzer  Sonata;  since 
Mrs.  Woodruffe's  party  much  water  had  flowed  under 
the  bridge.  Old  Vin  had  not  lived  to  see  his  daughter's 
genius  proved  by  aught  but  a  moral  lapse,  and  Eliza- 
beth had  soon  followed  him. 

Anne  leant  forward  and  looked  at  the  rows  of  women ; 
there  were  delicate  faces  flushed  and  alive;  older, 
stronger  faces  set  and  almost  hard.  And  here  Sara 
played  the  Kreutzer,  leading  them  all  into  the  cloudy 
overworld;  there  gleamed  Margaret  Rossiter's  white 
hair ;  last  week  the  nation  had  bought  a  picture  of  hers. 
The  power  of  women  like  these  two  only  cast  the  darker 


LA  SALLE  DES  PAS  PERDUS  355 

shadow  on  those  others — women  sold  by  millions  to  base 
marriage  because  no  other  trade  is  open  to  them,  women 
kept  behind  locked  doors  in  this  very  city  to  feed  the 
vilest  lusts,  women  sold  as  slaves  to  the  hells  of  far-off 
continents, — a  trade  that  no  civilised  nation  ever  lifts 
effective  hands  to  stop.  Women  everywhere  exploited. 

These  and  those. 

Anne  threw  herself  in  prayer  right  up  the  stairway  to 
the  feet  of  God  for  those  women  bound  by  the  tyranny 
of  bygone  centuries  to  the  vile  service  of  sex.  And  to 
her  thought  came  answer :  ' '  Lo,  I  make  all  things  new. ' ' 
For  love,  the  furtive  thing  that  drags  its  slime  through 
gutter  and  church  alike,  shall  one  day  be  but  the  in- 
spiration to  new  life. 

She  quivered  and  trembled,  till  Peter  slipped  a  hand 
in  hers  and  her  mind  flew  to  her  own  hard-working  days, 
to  her  boy  at  home.  It  was  good  to  fight,  to  feel  the 
courage  to  live  in  every  vein. 

Margaret  Rossiter  was  better  able  to  appreciate  what 
Guarini  had  done,  to  realise  the  inexplicable  blending 
of  all  the  human  tones  in  Sara's  playing,  as  unlike  as 
possible  from  Guarini's  aerial,  half -unearthly  music. 
He  was  for  the  gnomes  and  sprites  of  the  overwork!; 
she  was  blood-fast,  racial.  In  her  playing  the  old  went 
back  to  memories;  the  young,  forward  into  the  future. 
For  Sara's  playing  dealt  with  the  song  the  race  sings  to 
the  soul;  old,  half -forgotten  things,  the  glory  that 
touches  us  in  the  taste  of  apples,  in  the  dripping  of  the 
wine-press,  in  the  smell  of  earth. 

"He  has  helped  her  to  find  herself,"  said  Bellew,  as 
Guarini  led  her  forward  at  the  end. 

To  the  old  musician,  as  Sara  knew,  the  work  he  had 
done  was  but  paying  back  to  her,  the  woman,  the  debt 
he  owed  to  another  woman,  the  bent,  grey-haired  mother, 
with  the  scarred  and  knotted  hands  who,  bruised  and 
beaten,  had  yet  given  him  life. 

"Madonna,"  said  he,  "it  went  well." 


356  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

That  was  better  than  all  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd. 

"And  now,"  he  continued,  "for  Monsieur  1'Abbe  Por- 
chere,  the  old  rascal.  Such  things  he's  been  saying!" 

For  Guarini  wanted  a  holiday  badly. 

In  the  artists'  room  Bellew  sought  Sara.  He  found 
her  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  that  instinctively  made  way 
for  him.  They  had  not  met  since  the  night  at  Crane- 
ham  that  was  still  so  vivid  in  their  memories.  In  the 
green  flash  of  his  eyes,  Sara  read  his  passion;  it  was 
hatred  that  swayed  him.  momentarily,  the  hatred  of  find- 
ing himself  thrust  aside.  For  this  woman,  all  sufficient 
in  mail  of  power,  was  his  wife,  yet  not  his  wife. 

He  murmured  words  of  congratulation  to  which 
neither  listened.  Then  she  led  the  way  to  the  embrasure 
of  a  window  where  they  could  talk  unheard. 

"You  understood  why  I — left?"  she  asked. 

"Quite,"  said  he  curtly. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked. 

And  when  he  was  silent,  she  went  on: 

"I  wanted  to  put  wrong,  right.  I  tried.  I  failed. 
Then  I  knew  that  I  must  make  my  own  place." 

His  eyes  darkened  curiously,  for  his  instincts  were 
those  of  an  honest  man.  He  had  never  doubted  Sara's 
intentions  in  any  one  way.  To  him  she  was  never  a  light 
woman. 

He  told  her  so. 

"But  I  must  be  free  for  your  sake,  for  all  our  sakes," 
she  cried;  "there  is  but  one  way.  We  will  none  of  us 
live  with  maimed  lives  that  we  can  make  whole." 

Forcing  back  the  words  that  would  have  sounded  like 
a  taunt,  he  said: 

"But— he?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  ready.  And  you  will  release 
us." 

Anger  flashed  again  in  his  eyes.  "You  see,"  he  said 
cruelly,  "after  all,  whatever  you  may  dare,  you  must 
fall  back  on  me  in  the  end.  7  have  the  casting  vote." 


LA  SALLE  DBS  PAS  PEBDUS  357 

He  felt  as  though  he  had  whipped  her,  as  she  stood, 
shivering  like  a  thoroughbred,  yet  quiet.  But  it  was 
true,  so  damnably  true. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  cried.  "Of  course  you  ought  to 
be  free.  Believe  me,  iny  dear,  if  there  were  any  possible 
way  left  me  that  I  could  take  to  free  you  without  your 
going  through  the  courts,  I  would.  But  you  must. 
Oh,  Sara,  I'm  sorry." 

They  shook  hands,  wide-eyed,  like  two  children. 
Then  it  struck  him  that  there  was  another  way  out. 
He  hurried  away  to  Margaret  and  found  her  in  her 
flat,  drinking  tea  and  gazing  at  the  cosy  little  fire  she 
had  lit  for  companionship.  They  were  very  silent  for 
a  long  while,  till  Margaret  roused  herself  to  tell  him 
that  the  logs  on  the  fire-dogs  were  just  wreckage.  She 
had,  by  luck,  heard  of  a  ship-load  for  sale. 

"  Margaret,"  asked  he  at  last,  "have  you  forgiven 
me?" 

"Of  course.  Long  ago,"  she  answered,  "I  was  taken 
up  by  a  big  wave  and  tossed  ashore.  But  I  made  shift 
to  crawl  to  safety.  That's  where  those  came  from — " 
she  nodded  at  her  paintings.  "In  every  woman's  life 
that's  worth  while  there's  a  secret  niche  where  stands 
an  angel,  called  Pain." 

He  moved  uneasily. 

"It's  worse  for  the  man,"  said  he,  "for  he  cannot 
repair. ' ' 

She  laughed,  understanding  him  thoroughly. 

"No,  thank  God,"  she  said,  "for  if  a  woman's  got  to 
be  skinned,  she  needn  't  be  boiled  as  well.  Take  the  plain 
truth.  You  and  I  were  no  more  suitable  than  oil  and 
water.  You  showed  more  wisdom  then  than  in  all  your 
life  before  and  after." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  marry  me  now  if  I  asked  you?" 
•he  blurted  out. 

"Gracious,  no,"  said  she. 

Her  answer  was  so  genuinely  frank  that  he  laughed. 


358  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

"And,  really,"  she  said,  "I  believe  I  get  the  best  of  it 
as  it  is.  I  work  with  men,  live  with  them  en  bon  cama- 
rade.  And  what  good  fellows  they  are,  that  way.  But 
most  women  never  know  them  so.  That's  why  they  de- 
spise them.  For,  believe  me,  my  dear,  the  face  men 
turn  to  the  women  they  love  is  mostly  a  satyr's.  And 
that's  the  truth." 

Margaret  came  back  from  seeing  him  off  with  a  smile 
on  her  lips.  She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  and  blew 
smoke  wreaths  from  her  mouth,  her  eye-corner  folds 
a-twinkle  like  the  spokes  of  a  celestial,  but  diminutive, 
cart-wheel. 

At  last  there  came  a  bang  at  the  door  and  a  lugubrious 
man's  voice,  saying: 

"Do  come  and  tell  me  what  you  think.  The  damned 
thing  won't  come  right — no  how." 

It  was  the  bearded,  ruffianly-looking  painter  upstairs, 
and  at  the  end  of  an  evening  spent  in  comforting  a  pal, 
Margaret  tumbled,  too  tired  to  think,  into  bed.  The 
caretaker's  baby  was  wailing  below. 

"Ah,  the  blessed  bambino,"  cried  she,  screwing  up 
her  face  at  the  night-light.  "That's  the  worst  of  it. 
But  I'll  have  one.  Why  not?  As  sure  as  the  Lord 
sends  the  women,  and  the  devil,  the  men,  I  will.  For, 
in  the  words  of  Genefer  Eosdew,  if  the  tree  doesn't 
drop  its  apples,  you  must  shake  it.  I  will." 

And  she  did.  Quite  respectably,  too,  for  she  found 
a  verminous  little  beast  whom  the  good  Breton  fisher- 
folk  had  taught  to  sing  "Vive  I' amour:  Vive  le  vin,"  at 
the  age  of  three.  So  la  petite  Amourette  (Heaven  save 
us!)  became  the  bebe  of  the  English  mademoiselle. 

But  by  the  time  he  reached  the  bottom  of  Mademoi- 
selle's stairs,  Archer  Bellew  was  laughing  and  congratu- 
lating himself  on  his  luck.  For  these  Englishwomen 
were  terrible,  so  self-sufficient,  so  egotistic,  so  damnably 
up  and  down  in  their  straightforward  desire  to  make 
the  most  of  their  lives. 


359 

An'd  far  away  over  in  Biskra  there  was  the  shadow 
of  palm  trees,  the  call  of  the  muezzin,  the  midday  rest ; 
it  lured  him,  that  land,  as  home  calls  the  wanderer. 
There,  too,  were  beautiful,  simple  women,  with  adora- 
tion in  their  eyes.  Were  he  but  free,  he  would  settle 
there. 

And  soon  he  was  free. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EPITHALAMIUM :  IN  THIS  HEAVEN  LIGHTS  THE  TORCHES 
OF  THE  SKY 

T3ETWEEN  huge  slabs  of  granite  overgrown  with 
-*-*  moss  and  fern  grew  stunted  oaks,  their  gnarled 
and  knotted  trunks  half  hidden  with  carpeting  of  whort- 
bushes.  In  the  warm,  scented  wind  the  tree  branches 
waved  above  the  woodland  gloom  that  was  dappled  with 
points  of  gold.  Everywhere  was  light  and  movement, 
thrilling  upwards  from  the  breast  of  earth  towards  the 
sun's  caress.  A  single  robin's  note  floated  through  the 
heat  and  light,  its  sweet  loneliness  the  very  spirit  of 
the  waste. 

For  the  oak  wood  is  at  the  foot  of  Black  Tor,  looking 
towards  the  valley  where  the  West  Okement  slips  by 
sand-edged  pools  and  rushing  falls  between  a  gorge 
buried  deep  in  mountain-ash  and  purple  heather.  At 
the  head  is  the  wild  moor  towards  Great  Kneeset  with 
its  dun  stretches  of  ling,  a  mantle  of  brown  fur,  broken 
here  and  there  by  solitary  thorn  bushes  white  with 
bloom  and  odorous  with  heavy  scent.  Lonely  points 
that  catch  the  eye  and  offer  harbourage  for  the  grey 
cuckoos  of  this  June  time,  they  speak,  even  now,  of 
winds  and  suns,  of  beating  rains  and  the  scurry  of 
the  snow  in  the  long  winter  nights. 

Sara  sat  outside  the  wood;  at  her  feet  was  a  moor- 
land pool,  brown  with  peat  and  yellow  with  the  glinting 
gold  of  a  reflected  gorse  bush.  Behind  her,  in  the  tent 
doorway,  lay  a  long  blue-grey  boar-hound,  its  sharp 
pointed  snout  resting  on  delicate,  arching  feet. 

The  day  advanced;  over  Amicombe  the  sun  spread  a 
360 


EPITHALAMIUM  361 

delicate  golden  green,  turning  the  hill  into  a  dark 
shadow  along  which  the  creeping  clouds  passed  like  a 
breath.  Between  a  mass  of  boulders,  a  ewe  sheltered 
with  her  lambs.  On  the  sky-line  a  cropping  horse 
seemed  cut  in  bronze.  Against  the  sheltering  bastion 
of  the  hill  the  wind  broke  and  rebounded  like  the  sea 
tearing  at  a  cliff. 

Soon  the  noises  of  the  night  began ;  the  river  rose  and 
fell  like  a  vast  in-breathing  and  out-breathing.  Day- 
light and  starlight  met.  A  hawk,  flying  over  the  moor, 
passed  so  close  that  the  oarage  of  its  wings  was  plainly 
audible.  From  side  to  side  of  the  valley  the  night- jars 
answered  one  another,  while  the  purple  darkness  of  the 
valley  rose  higher  and  higher,  up  past  the  hillside,  to 
the  star-strewn  dome  above. 

Then  there  came  an  unwonted  sound ;  the  dog  growled, 
pricked  his  ears.  It  was  the  noise  made  by  a  steel-point 
that  strikes  a  rock.  Sara,  rising,  stood  with  her  hand 
on  the  dog's  collar.  It  was  sweet  in  that  solitude  to 
feel  the  bristling  muscles  of  his  neck.  Her  keen  sight, 
used  to  the  dimness,  discerned  a  moving  point  among 
the  boulders.  It  was  a  man  climbing  over  the  hill  by 
the  help  of  an  alp  en-stock.  She  turned  back  to  the 
tent  and  lit  the  lamp  that  its  rays  might  guide  the 
leaping,  goat-like  figure  to  the  wood.  Outside  in 
the  stillness  she  could  hear  the  wind  along  the  moor  and 
the  stealthy  rustle  of  snake  or  stoat  gliding  through  the 
bracken.  But  deeper  than  all  was  the  sound  of  her 
racing  blood  that  not  even  the  wind  could  cool.  Bare- 
footed, she  clung  to  the  ground,  as  though  the  whirling 
ball  beneath  her  feet  claimed  a  surer  clasp. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  zone  of  light  from 
the  tent  door.  Sparkles  of  fire  seemed  to  pass  from 
his  eyes  to  hers.  He  must  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Bodinar 
for  direction;  her  cottage  deep  in  black  dust  and  "all 
of  a  caddie"  came  back  to  Sara.  She  smiled  at  the 
recollection  with  sudden  gaiety. 


362  WINGS  OF  DESIRE 

She  was  astonished  at  the  homely  feeling  brought  by 
the  touch  of  his  arms,  for  all  the  tender  memories  of  a 
lifetime  seemed  gathered  there:  the  sudden  sight  of  a 
little  rag  doll  that  Anne  and  she  had  played  with  as 
children  had  brought  the  same  sensation. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,'*  she  cried,  and  laughing,  re- 
joiced in  his  strength  as  he  lifted  her  face  to  his.  The 
dog  sniffed  cautiously,  licked  their  hands  and  gravely 
followed  them  up  the  pathway  of  light  to  the  tent  door. 

Every  sound  was  very  distant  now;  mouse  and  bird 
were  silent,  only  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  river 
seemed  like  the  breathing  of  the  earth.  Low  and  white 
against  the  darkness  of  the  wood  shone  the  little  tent. 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  she,  turning  back  to  him. 

"Sure,"  answered  he  and  lifted  her  over  the  thresh- 
old. Then,  seeing  a  trouble  in  her  eyes,  he  asked: 

"Sara,  what  is  it,  tell  me?" 

"We  must  pay,  you  know,"  she  answered.  "Shall 
you  mind?  For  what  they  may  say  to — our  children 
of  their  mother?" 

"Should  I  be  here,  if  I  minded?"  he  asked. 

And  she  bowed  her  head,  for  like  a  wonderful  tree 
of  life,  their  mutual  trust  in  each  other's  honour  bore 
but  their  love  and  passion  as  a  flower. 

"He  will  free  us,  will  he  not?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly. 

Then  Anne's  thought  came  for,  after  all,  this  road 
they  had  to  tread  was  in  the  eyes  of  most  but  a  muddy 
track. 

"This,"  she  said  brokenly,  "that  to  us  is  glorious — 
and  to  so  many,  but  a  shame. ' ' 

He  was  silent.     Then  he  said  at  last : 

"But,  we  have  not  failed  them,  those  others." 

"They  will  say  so,"  she  answered. 

"But,"  he  held  her  hands  and  looking  down  on  her, 
asked:  "Cannot  we  two,  at  any  rate,  look  below  the 
shows?" 


EPITHALAMIUM  363 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  they  could;  for  to  look  below 
•was,  as  they  very  well  knew,  their  sole  justification. 

All  the  while  the  dog  lay  across  the  doorway,  clasp- 
ing in  his  delicate,  long-nailed  forefeet  a  bone  he  had 
stored  in  the  bracken.  He  held  it  upright  and  sucked 
it  at  intervals  as  one  may  take  pulls  at  an  empty  pipe. 
Then  he  leapt  to  his  feet,  for  Sara  had  come  to  the  door. 
There  held  by  Billy's  encircling  arm,  she  stood  looking 
out;  the  Milky  Way,  a  cross  of  starry  gauze,  lay  low 
across  their  home.  It  had  lain  across  Craneham  that 
night  when  Archer  spoke.  The  moor-wind  sighed  along 
the  waste. 

Boris  also  sighed,  for  supper  in  those  days  was  noth- 
ing accounted  of.  Surely  the  Signer  Guarini,  in  hand- 
ing him  over  to  a  woman,  had  never  contemplated  this 
weary  endurance  of  an  empty  belly?  Then,  at  last,  the 
humans  remembered,  the  joyful  clatter  of  plates  began 
and  the  hound  recovered  his  spirits. 

Hours  later,  he  got  up,  stretched,  lay  down  again  and 
watched  the  night  fade.  It  was  the  time  when  sleeping 
beast  and  bird  turn  in  their  rest,  the  one  hour  in  the 
twenty-four  when  the  onward  rush  of  the  earth  through 
space  may  be  felt.  In  the  pale  primrose  of  the  sky  the 
stars  were  fading;  from  the  horizon  pulsing  waves  of 
colour  poured  into  the  valleys.  The  black  shadows 
•which  had  crouched  beneath  the  sky  all  night  were, 
after  all,  but  marking  the  presence  of  the  Eternal  Hills. 

For  the  dawn  was  at  hand. 


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ually. 

Tropical  Tales 

***  A  collection  of  short  stories  dealing  with  "all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions" of  men  and  women  in  all  classes  of  life  ;  some  of  the 
tales  sounding  the  note  of  joy  and  happiness;  others  portraying  the 
pathetic,  and  even  the  shady  side  of  life ;  all  written  in  the  interest- 
ing manner  characteristic  of  the  author. 

The  Riding  Master.    Cloth.    12mo.    $1.50 


MAUD  DIVER 

A  TRILOGY  OF  ANGLO-INDIAN 
ARMY  LIFE 

New  York  Times:  "Above  the  multitude  of  novels  (erotic  and 
neurotic)  hers  shine  like  stars.  She  has  produced  a  comprehensive 
and  full  drama  of  life,  rich  in  humanity;  noble,  satisfying — it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  great. " 

(New  Editions) 

CANDLES  IN  THE  WIND 

CAPTAIN  DESMOND,  V.  C. 

THE  GREAT  AMULET 

Cloth,    tamo.    $1.30  each 

The  Argonaut  (San  Francisco):  "  We  doubt  if  any  other  writer 
gives  us  so  composite  and  convincing  a  picture  of  that  curious  mixture 
of  soldier  and  civilian  that  makes  up  Indian  society.  She  shows  us  the 
life  of  the  country  from  many  standpoints,  giving  us  the  idea  of  a  store- 
house of  experience  so  well  stocked  that  incidents  can  be  selected  with 
a  fastidious  and  dainty  care." 

London  Morning  Post:  "  Vigor  of  characterization  accompanied  by 
an  admirable  terseness  and  simplicity  of  expression." 

Literary  World:  "Undoubtedly  some  of  the  finest  novels  that 
Indian  life  has  produced." 

London  Telegraph:  "  Some  sincere  pictures  of  Indian  life  which  are 
as  real  and  convincing  as  any  which  have  entered  into  the  pages  of 
fiction." 

The  Chicago  Tribune:  "  The  characterization  is  excellent  and  her 
presentation  of  frontier  life  and  of  social  conditions  produces  a  strong 
impression  of  truth." 

Boston  Evening  Transcript:  "  Knows  absolutely  the  life  that  she 
depicts.  Her  characters  are  excellently  portrayed." 

Chicago  Record  Herald:  "  Well  told;  the  humanizaticn  good  and 
the  Indian  atmosphere,  always  dramatic,  is  effectively  depicted.  Holds 
the  attention  without  a  break." 

Toronto  Mail:  «•  Real  imagination,  force,  and  power.  Rudyard 
Kipling  and  imitators  have  shown  us  the  sordid  side  of  this  social  life. 
It  remains  for  Mrs.  Diver  to  depict  tender-hearted  men  and  brave,  true 
women.  Her  work  is  illuminated  by  flashes  of  spiritual  insight  that 
one  longs  to  hold  in  memory." 


THE   COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  J.   LOCKE 

"LIFE    IS    A     GLORIOUS    THING." — W.    J.     Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles 
and  be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His 
characters  are  worth  knowing.  " — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  in  Shadows  The  White  Dove 

Simon  the  Jester  The  Usurper 

Where  Love  Is  Septimus 

Derelicts  Idols 

The  Glory  of  Clementina 

12mo.          Cloth.         $1.50  each 

Thirteen  volumes  bound  in  green  cloth.     Uniform  edition  in  box. 
$19.00 per  set.     Half  Morocco  $50.00  net.     Expreis  prepaid. 

Simon  the  Jester 

(Profusely  illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 
"It  has  all  the  charm  and  surprise  of  his  famous  ' Simple  Septimus.' 
It  is  a  novel  full  of  wit  and  action  and  life.  The  characters  are  all 
out-of-the-ordinary  and  splendidly  depicted;  and  the  end  is  an 
artistic  triumph — a  fitting  climax  for  a  story  that's  full  of  charm 
and  surprise." — American  Magazine. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  *The  Beloved  Vagabond*  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart. " 

—Chicago  Record-Herald. 

SeptimtlS  (Illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year. " — American  Magazine. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way." — Life. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 
beginning. " — Netw  York  Globe. 


GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 

"  Always  entertaining. " — Neiv  York  Evening  Sun. 
"Always  original.  "—Chicago  Tribune. 

Heretics  12mo.     $1.50  net.     Postage  12  cent: 

"His  thinking  is  as  sane  as  his  language  is  brilliant." 

—Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Orthodoxy.     Uniform  with  "  Heretics." 

12mo.     $1.50  net.     Postage  12  cents 
"A  work  of  genius.** — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

All  Things  Considered 

Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50  net.     Postage  12  cents 

"  Full  of  the  author's  abundant  vitality,  wit  and  unflinching  opti- 
mism."— Book  News. 

George  Bernard  Shaw.    A  Biography 

Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50  net.     Postage  12  cents 

"It  is  a  facinating  portrait  study  and  I  am  proud  to  have  been  the 
painter's  model." — George  Bernard  Shaw  in  The  Nation  (London). 

The  Napoleon  of  Netting  Hill.    A  Romance.     With 
Illustrations  by  GRAHAM  ROBERTSON 

Cloth.     12mo.      $1.50 

"A  brilliant  piece  of  satire,  gemmed  with  ingenious  paradox. 
Every  page  is  pregnant  with  vitality." — Boston  Herald. 

The  Ball  and  the  Cross  Cloth.    12mo.    $1.50 

"The  most  strikingly  original  novel  of  the  present  season.  It  is 
studded  with  intellectual  brilliants.  Its  satire  is  keener  than  that  of 
Bernard  Shaw.  Behind  all  this  foolery  there  shines  the  light  of 
Truth.  A  brilliant  piece  of  satire — a  gem  that  sparkles  from  any 
point  of  view  the  reader  may  choose  to  regard  it. ' ' 

— San  Francisco  Bulletin. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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